by May Burnett
Miss Towers nodded sombrely. “I will pray too,” the older woman whispered. She was pale but conscious. “Worry for your own safety, my dear.”
“What does she mean?” The doctor asked with a suspicious look at Duncan.
“Someone shot at us – at me – with a rifle, only a few miles back, on the road,” Miss Towers said.
“A poacher?”
“I do not know,” she confessed. “It was too dark to see the shooter, and we made haste to leave.”
“Most irregular. I shall have to inform the local magistrate of these goings-on. He tolerates no poaching in his district.”
“The bullet grazed the maid’s arm,” Duncan said. “There, she has a bandage now.”
Without another word, Grimsby cut off the makeshift bandage and stared at the shallow wound. After a moment he rummaged in his bag and applied a pale green salve to it. “She is lucky that the bullet did not lodge in her body.”
“Miss Towers and I were even luckier,” Duncan said, “it passed right next to our heads.”
“You never mentioned that,” the landlord said accusingly. “Murderers are after you? Why?”
“How should I know?” Duncan had no desire to explain himself to the man. “It is not to be supposed that they would dare follow us here.”
The companion opened her pale blue eyes, clearly desirous of speaking, but after looking around she seemed to think better of it.
Once the maid’s wound was bandaged up again, and a large amount of barley water ordered, the doctor took his leave. “With luck they’ll all pull through, but I have my doubts about that maid,” he said when he pocketed his fee of two guineas. Miss Towers had produced the sum without argument, out of a heavy leather bag. The landlord conducted him out, promising to have a pitcher of barley water sent from the kitchen straight away.
The moment the two men were gone, the companion whispered, staring at Duncan, “Who are you, young man?”
“Captain Kinninmont is a good Samaritan, who helped me when all of you fell so sick,” Miss Towers explained before Duncan could do so. “Don’t worry your head about him. Without his assistance, we would all be dying in a ditch at this moment.”
“If he can be trusted,” the older woman said, “and is a soldier, then he should escort you to your Uncle’s house without delay. I’ll look after Rita and the others, and follow as soon as we are recovered.”
“I cannot just leave you here,” Miss Towers objected. “And the Captain may have other plans.”
“We are so close, merely a few hours’ distance. Your uncle will send his servants to fetch us, and look after us. I cannot rest easy, with you in this place, so unsuited to one of your condition. This is no place for a lady.”
“The Blue Boar,” Miss Towers murmured. “It is not what I am used to, but at least I am healthy.” She turned towards Duncan. “The place is full, however, and there is no room left for you, as we occupied all available quarters. It is true that at my Uncle’s estate we could rest in comfortable, clean beds, and send help back tomorrow. Or rather, today.” The sky was lightening already.
“We cannot possibly use that coach, it needs to be cleaned, if not burned,” he pointed out. “My horse is tired, and you too must be exhausted. Why don’t you rest a while, for a few hours at least? We could leave after breakfast, if we can hire a conveyance in this neighbourhood.”
“No need, I can ride too,” she said, to his surprise. “It is not that different from a hunt, after all.”
Except that they were the quarry of her unseen enemy this time. But Duncan merely nodded. Perhaps he’d feel more optimistic about this enterprise after a few hours of bedding down in the stables with Emperor.
Chapter 4
By the time he had downed a hearty breakfast, after three hours in the hay and a wash at the horse trough, Duncan felt more energetic, keen to get to the end of this knight-errantry. The lady was certainly pretty enough, now he saw her clearly. Her very fair skin showed shadows under those dark brown eyes, an unusual but attractive combination with her blonde curls. She still did not look anything like twenty-one. Seventeen at most, with that slight figure. You had to look very carefully to make out the delicate curves under the elegant riding costume.
When it came time to pay the shot she had already taken care of everything, including his breakfast. “It is the least I could do,” she said when he protested, “Indeed, I owe you far more, and I am hoping to impose on you yet further, if you can spare the time. “
“How can I assist you, Miss Towers? Are you still determined to proceed to your uncle’s estate? Who is he?”
“My father’s oldest friend, not really a blood relative,” she explained. “His name is James Ellsworthy, and his wife is Aunt Charlotte. They have children close to my own age, and we have visited each other all my life. Once I am with them, I shall be safe.”
“And can you find that estate from here?”
“Yes, of course, I have stayed there several times and we rode all over the area. As soon as we draw near, I cannot miss it.”
“Will this mysterious pursuer of yours know you are making for that place?”
She paused, considered. “I don’t know. Possibly. Our families’ long friendship is no secret. There is no other plausible reason why I should be travelling in this direction.”
“That shooter might plan another ambush,” he pointed out. “If I were this enemy, I’d wait for you close to your destination.”
She gnawed her pink lips. “It does seem logical.”
“If we are on horseback and you know the place as well as you say, we do not have to take the most obvious route. Is there some more circuitous approach, from a different direction?”
“Across the neighbouring estate. Instead of coming from the east, we could make a turn northwards and slip into the orchard. We will have to jump a few hedges and a rivulet.”
“Emperor is a good jumper,” he said. “But I’m less sanguine about that old mare you rented from the landlord, and doubt she is accustomed to your lady’s saddle.”
“She can do it,” Miss Towers assured him. “Remember that I weigh very little, less than most professional jockeys.”
So they set out, and he was surprised how well she held up after that less than restful night. Miss Towers might look as though a gust of wind might carry her away, but she had bottom. An intriguing female.
They rode in single file, he taking point while she followed, not pressing the horses. Emperor had not had a full night’s sleep either, but he’d been well fed and moved with his customary vigour. The old mare seemed to enjoy the unexpected adventure in the pleasant spring sunshine.
Presently he judged that the mare needed a rest, and so might her rider, though she had not uttered a single complaint. He stopped on a meadow next to a bubbling brook, and swung down. As he lifted Miss Towers off the mare he marvelled at how light she was, how very tiny her waist.
Both horses immediately began to graze. He hoped the farmer to whom this spot belonged would not turn up, but all seemed deserted.
Duncan took off his woollen outer jacket, so she might sit on it and not mar that elegant riding dress with grass spots. “Rest for a while, Ma’am, till the horses get their second wind.”
She sat down with a smile. “Thank you, Sir. This is almost like a picnic. Do you suppose the water of that brook is safe to drink?”
“Better not risk it, remember what befell your retainers.” He proffered his canteen. “It is only cold tea, but better than nothing.”
She drank, swallowed. He’d never be able to use the old flask again without remembering how her pretty pink lips had touched its rim.
“Thank you.” She passed it back.
“I have some bread and cheese too, if you are hungry?”
“Perhaps a small bite,” she said, “it is not that long since breakfast.”
Companionably sharing his provisions, they watched the horses at their own peaceful repast. “In daylight my fears
of last night seem almost absurd,” she said meditatively. “Yet that bullet was not my imagination, was it?”
“Indeed not. I inspected the carriage before we departed. It had another hole in the bottom, where the bullet passed out again. The shooter must have been fairly close, for it to have so much energy still.”
“Not a poacher?”
“Not unless he was hunting for bigger game like deer. They usually prefer scattershot. In any case, nobody could confuse a coach-and-four with anything else.” He watched her profile, the decided but feminine chin, the long lashes and the straight little nose. She turned her head towards him and met his eyes with her brown ones, full of pride and challenge.
“Tell me more about yourself, Captain Kinninmont. Was it your own idea to join the army?”
“Indeed,” he admitted, “although thinking back, it was partly the fault of my uncle Gerard. He served as a sergeant, until he lost his left arm at Waterloo. He was glad to have survived at all, he told me, and his tales of desperate battles against Napoleon, in Spain and Portugal, fired my youthful imagination. Of course, nothing else would do for me but becoming an officer. My uncle – he died when I was sixteen – had little good to say of commissioned officers, but I foolishly put that down to bias.”
“I know quite a few officers,” the young lady remarked. “What did your uncle the sergeant have against them? And have you come to agree with him?”
“Only to a degree. It is prejudice to judge any class of men wholesale, and there are certainly some excellent officers. But to function properly, the army depends on its sergeants. At least the officers my uncle knew were tempered by war, which I suspect filtered out the worst of the lot. In peacetime, things are rather different.” This was a subject on which he had thought all too often. “My parents were opposed to my hopes of joining the army, especially my father, who tried to persuade me to join the business. He was a draper.” He kept his eyes on her face while he confessed this circumstance, but if she thought less of him it was not perceptible from her serene expression. “There is not one drop of blue blood in my veins, Miss Towers. My mother grew up on a farm.”
Her expression was innocently curious. “How did you finance your commission, then? I understand they are not cheap.”
“It depends on the regiment. Infantry, like my late regiment, is more affordable and less exclusive than the cavalry or the guards. My father’s business was prosperous enough that he sent me to a good school, and I could buy a commission from my inheritance, with a bit left over.”
She was silent for minute. “Did your background make it harder to fit in? The officers I know, in England or France, tend to be very proud of their pedigree, if they have it. In France at least there is the republican tradition, and many still admire the example of Napoleon. But here in England…”
She had put her finger right on the wound. This was no giddy, immature girl, no matter how she looked, but a lady who had seen something of the world, and had a good head on her shoulders.
“It was not easy,” he confessed, unwilling to go into humiliating detail. “I was too proud to befriend those who looked down their noses at me, and tried to impress my superiors by doing everything better than the rest.”
She chuckled, an unexpectedly husky sound from such a youthful throat. “I can imagine how popular that must have made you.”
“Then you know more about human nature than I did at your age, Miss Towers. As you guess, it only made me seem more of a prig, and I earned little thanks.” It was surprisingly easy to talk to this young lady, whom he would never see again after he delivered her at her uncle’s house. “Worse, one of my superiors noted my neat letters, and facility for adding columns. This was taken as proof of my shopkeepers’ blood.”
“So you are good at figures? So is my mother,” she said. “She can spot a mistake in a ledger as though by magic.”
“So can I,” he admitted. “I also know immediately how profitable a proposed business will be, over what time, under what conditions. I don’t have to think about it, or do any figuring on paper, the way my older brother does. That was why my father was so keen to have me go into partnership with my brother. If I had, I might be a rich man by now, but I never valued this ability. All I wanted was to be an officer.”
“Well, now you are selling out this talent will stand you in good stead. My mother would be interested in meeting you, I think.”
“As a woman, she’d have found it even less useful than I have,” he surmised.
“You’d be surprised. She inherited a brewery business and has expanded it in the teeth of disapproving relatives and society.”
He stared. No wonder Miss Towers was not looking down on him, with breweries in her background. From her aristocratic speech, he would never have guessed it. “She sounds like a remarkable woman, and I would indeed like to meet her too. Have you inherited any of her talent for figures?”
“No, alas,” she shook her head, “I know as much as the average lady, but compared to her, I am a dunce where bookkeeping and mathematics are concerned.”
“Is your mother aware of your danger, Miss Towers? What of your father, is he still alive? Will you send them a message to come to your aid?”
“That would be difficult. They are indeed very much alive, to the best of my knowledge, but out of my reach. There was an emergency – my younger brother Etienne was wounded in Martinique, and they have sailed to his aid, to bring him home when he is able to travel.”
He frowned. “They left you behind all by yourself?”
“I am a wretched sailor, so I was not keen to go with them. There was little time to decide; they packed me off to our English friends with Miss Maynard. As I have known them all my life I did not object, even had I been willing to raise problems at such a moment. And not all the family is gone, my two youngest brothers remain at their boarding school near Paris.”
“You are the eldest of your family, then? And the only daughter?”
“Indeed, by two years. Etienne is nineteen. I have wished for a sister, but it was not to be.”
“If your mother owns a brewery business, how can she afford to sail off for months on end? It is fatal for an owner to abandon his enterprise for long periods.”
“Yes, she frets about that. The bulk of the business is still in England, but she resides in France for most of the year.”
Resides seemed a rather grandiloquent expression for a brewery owner. “And your father, is he also engaged in business?”
“In a manner of speaking. He inherited an estate and vineyards in the Loire valley,” she explained. “But with mother’s advice, he has also acquired shares in a number of different industries. They don’t tell me about the details, and refuse to let me involve myself in these activities.” She ended on a slightly aggrieved note.
With several sons available to take over the family business, Miss Towers’ help would not be needed. “They will have expected you to make a good match,” he guessed. “Your future husband might not wish you to involve yourself in unladylike pursuits.”
Her eyes flashed. “My future husband will not dictate my interests to me.”
No doubt that attitude was why she was still unmarried at twenty-one, as pretty and – presumably – well-dowered as she was.
It was none of his business. “Time to ride on,” he suggested, putting away the remnants of their modest meal and the nearly empty canteen. “Do you recognise the neighbourhood yet?”
“Unless I am mistaken, that brook is the very same in which Uncle James likes to fish,” she said. “If we follow its course we should get there from the back of the house, safely.”
“It goes against the grain to hide,” he observed. “I wish we came across this pursuer of yours and I could knock him down, force him to confess what he’s really after.”
“The occasion may yet arise,” she said optimistically.
Chapter 5
As they approached the familiar orchard over meadows and hedges, Mo
nique’s heart lightened. Safety, and the comfort of old friends, were within reach. Not that she felt precisely frightened. The young officer next to her was a perfectly adequate bodyguard, as long as nobody was waiting in ambush.
She had rather misled him, more by omission than actual untruth. He thought she was close to his own class, living on the fruits of commerce. It could have been true – it was not Monique’s fault that from early childhood she’d been deliberately kept away from anything that could be deemed beneath her, any activity or interest that might taint the blue blood in her veins. Even her free-thinking Maman had been part of the conspiracy to educate and preserve Monique as the very epitome of a well-bred young aristocrat, one of the few ways in which she treated Monique as her stepdaughter rather than as her own child.
Her pure pedigree set Monique apart, more than being the only girl in the family, and the eldest sibling. Ironically she prized her lineage much less than people who did not possess its equivalent. Everyone who had known her father’s first wife, who had died within days of giving birth to Monique, exclaimed how much Monique resembled her. Her small stature, fair hair and regular features were nearly identical. Only her dark brown eyes and greater vitality came from her father.
In Monique’s opinion those comparisons were not flattering. From all she had been able to discover, the late Louise-Henriette de Ville-Deuxtours had been a shallow woman, who spent her time in endless gossip whilst working on her exquisite embroidery. Despite her privileged birth and wealth she had made no push to achieve anything in her life, and dutifully married where her parents commanded it, only to perish the very first time she gave birth. Monique was determined not to be like her. Already she was older than her mother had been at the time of her death. She refused to touch an embroidery hoop, though as a child, before she knew better, she had acquired a considerable proficiency.
