The Major and the Pickpocket

by Lucy Ashford

  Marcus had gone very still. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I cannot afford to offend Sebastian and his clique. But—he has insulted me from time to time, and this is my quiet way of getting my revenge.’

  ‘For which I thank you. But Sebastian should take care,’ said Marcus grimly. ‘The matter is by no means settled.’

  Lady Sallis shrugged her exquisite shoulders. ‘Sebastian thinks it is. For he has, I hear, been negotiating the sale of certain objects from the hall—a half-dozen or so paintings, I believe—with a shady Bow Street art dealer. Rumour has it that they are already in his possession.’

  Marcus had gone very still. ‘Paintings. Paintings… Are you quite certain?’

  She shrugged lightly. ‘I only report what I have heard. But that is, perhaps, only the start. Where will he stop? Will he gamble, perhaps, with your godfather’s letter of promise to him? All in all, Marcus, if you want to save the Lornings estate, then you must, I think, proceed rather swiftly, my friend.’ She leaned a little closer. ‘Now, I know you aren’t a gambling man, my dear. But there are other entertainments on offer, you know, at my salon. To you—without charge.’ Those dimples again, a clear and personal invitation; and then she was gone, as quickly as she had come, leaving only the lingering trace of her perfume behind. The curtain was starting to rise again, and people wandered casually back to their seats, with much rustling of silks and satins, and the murmur of their gossiping voices faded at last as the play resumed.

  Of the rest of the play, Marcus heard not one word. Lady Sallis’s news had driven all else from his mind. Sebastian Corbridge, the cowardly, scheming villain, was trying to sell some works of art—reputedly from Lornings—here, in London. It must have been Sebastian, or men hired by him, who had stolen those paintings.

  He remembered Tassie’s stricken face as he confronted her. Her desperate defence of her friends. ‘But the pictures were already missing, Marcus! And it wasn’t my friends who stole them from Lornings, I swear to you on my honour!’

  He rested his face in his hands, protected by the darkness around him. Tassie had always, always told him she never let down friends who trusted her. And she’d counted him, Marcus, as a friend. More fool her, seeing as he’d bullied her, forced her by foul means as well as fair into a risky venture, come close to seducing her, and finally accused her and her friends of an ugly theft.

  He needed her forgiveness. And if Sebastian, stupidly, criminally reckless as ever in his gambling fever, was on the verge of promising to back up his gaming debts with the entire Lornings estate, as Lady Sallis had just hinted, then quite probably Marcus’s only chance to save Lornings for Roderick now lay with Tassie, and his original scheme. Indeed, it was a wild gamble, but it was all that was left.

  By rights the girl should tell him to go to the devil, and thrust his bargain back in his face. But out of sheer, stubborn pride, Marcus believed Tassie would challenge Sebastian, and lure him into a deep, private game, and play him with her delicate yet lethal finesse for the letter that held the threat of ruin over his godfather’s head.

  Yet could he use her as he had planned, when she had grown to mean so much more to him than she should?

  He left the theatre before the play was over, murmuring apologies to Hal and Caro. Sleet was falling from heavy black skies as he tramped through the streets. Marcus’s thoughts sped to Gloucestershire, where he guessed that the sleet would be coming down as snow on the rolling Cotswold hills. Thank God Tassie would be safe and warm with Sir Roderick in the Dower House.

  There was a message waiting for him in Portman Square from his latest lawyer, a stoop-backed, dishevelled man with dusty clothes and an ancient wig; his name was Erasmus Digby, and he spoke as slowly and as interminably as a deaf country parson. Marcus tore it open. Concerning the matter in hand, I think that we might be making certain progress with reference to the case I mentioned to you, of Smithson versus Southcott, which occurred five years ago, and of which certain clauses might provide a useful precedent…

  Marcus was weary of false hopes and promises, weary of the endless disputations of the law.

  His lawyer could wait. So could Sebastian—for a short while. Because first he had to see Tassie, and make an apology.

  It was two in the afternoon, and Tassie came from a game of All Fours with Sir Roderick to find Will Daniels with Jacob in the stone-flagged kitchen. Will was clapping his chapped hands together, and his cheeks were red with cold. More snow had fallen overnight, and though the morning skies had briefly brightened, fresh flurries were now whirling down from the leaden afternoon sky.

  Tassie heard Will say anxiously, ‘There’s at least three of our ewes stuck up in the snow just beyond Oaker’s Ridge, Uncle Jacob! I’ll do my best to get to them, be sure of it, but if the ewes drop their lambs up there alone, they’ll die for certain in this cold.’

  Tassie stepped forward anxiously. ‘Aren’t there any shelters for them up there, Will?’

  ‘Aye, mistress Tassie. There be a ring wall up in the lee of the ridge, and a shepherd’s hut a mile further. But, don’t you see, ‘tis getting the creatures there that’s nigh impossible!’

  Jacob said, ‘Can’t your father help?’

  ‘He’s nursin’ a stiff leg from where he slipped yesterday on the ice in the yard. And you ain’t no use, either, Uncle Jacob; it needs someone young and fit.’ Will sighed. ‘I’ll set off up there again to try it, but there’s only two or three hours of daylight left at most…’

  Tassie frowned. There’d been several young lambs brought down to the barn in the last few days, and she loved their long, wobbly legs and their helpless, bleating cries. She couldn’t bear to think of the new lambs lost in the snow.

  ‘Well, nephew,’ Jacob was saying heavily to Will, ‘you could ride over to Hockton for help, but the farmers there will all be a-strugglin’ with their own flocks. There ain’t much more we can do.’

  But there is, thought Tassie desperately. There is.

  During her travels with Georgie Jay and his friends, she’d often helped with the lambing. Old Matt, who’d been a sheep farmer before the enclosures took away his livelihood, had taught Tassie everything: how to spot a ewe about to birth, how to cut the cord, and rub the feeble infant briskly, and push it towards its mother to feed.

  Quickly, not saying anything to either Jacob or Peg because she knew they’d disapprove, she followed Will out into the bitter cold of the yard. ‘Will,’ she called, clutching at his arm. ‘Wait a few moments, Will. I know all about lambing! I’ll come and help you!’

  ‘You, Miss Tassie?’ His jaw dropped open. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t I know how to ride, and milk cows as well as any country girl?’

  ‘Aye, you do! But—’

  ‘I’m coming with you, Will. And that’s final.’

  He grinned and touched his curly forelock. ‘I wouldn’t dare argue, Miss Tassie.’

  The snow was falling steadily by the time they’d mounted their ponies and headed up towards the exposed slopes of Oaker’s Ridge. There they found several heavily pregnant ewes taking cover behind a stunted thorn thicket that was little more than a windbreak. The animals needed proper shelter out of the cold, especially as one of them was distressed. Tassie feared that her lamb was on its way. She tried to remember, rather desperately, what old Matt had told her.

  ‘Keep them calm, Tass. Mother Nature will take her course, long as they’re not panicking. It’s if they struggle the little lamb gets hurt.’

  They must get the ewes into shelter. They must.

  Will was crouched over the birthing ewe, ready to help her. But, above the ominous moan of the strong easterly wind as it drove the snow across the hills, Tassie could hear another, far-off sheep crying out, bleating piteously. ‘Will,’ she cried, ‘there’s another one up there. Can you hear it?’

  ‘Aye, that I can,’ replied Will grimly. ‘But it will have to wait, Miss Tassie. This little ‘un’s on its way. Can’t leave it no
w.’

  He was right. The ewe strained, her eyes rolling in distress. Again, Tassie heard the distant sheep calling: a forlorn, chill sound, up on the heights above the tree line. Tassie made up her mind. ‘I’ll go to that one, Will. On foot—the pony won’t make it, not in this snow.’

  Will looked anxious, but he was fully occupied with the straining ewe. ‘Could be you’re too late anyway to save her, Miss Tassie.’

  ‘I hope not. Oh, Will, I hope not.’

  ‘I’ll follow you up when this one’s sorted. Don’t risk yourself too much, now, will you, girl? Looks like some real heavy snow comin’ in.’

  It was a long, hard struggle to the top of the ridge, and the cold wind took Tassie’s breath away. The afternoon light was starting to fail, and the snow was clinging thickly to her coat and boots by the time she found the ewe, lying terrified in a drift. When it saw her it struggled to get up. ‘It’s all right,’ breathed Tassie quickly, kneeling down beside it. ‘It’s all right, my lovely lass. Stay where you are. I’ll see you come to no harm…’

  She was a long, long way now from Will. Looking back down the hillside, she saw that the driving storm had obliterated her view of the entire valley. Fighting down a little surge of panic, Tassie inspected the ewe. Her lamb was on its way. Tassie sheltered them from the howling demon wind with her body, while willing the mother on. Nearly there. Oh, nearly there…

  The tiny lamb slipped out, and its mother’s strainings eased. Tassie drew the sharp knife from her boot, using it and some twine Will had given her to separate and bind the cord, then pushed the damp, quivering bundle towards the ewe. ‘Here you are, mother,’ she whispered. ‘’Tis up to you now. I can do no more.’

  And slowly Tassie, forgetting her weariness, forgetting her cold, began to smile with pure delight as the weary ewe nudged at her new-born lamb, licking it and caressing it into life, until at last it lifted its head and bleated before latching on to feed.

  Tassie knew she could allow herself little time to sit and gaze at it. This was different indeed to the spring lambings she was used to, amidst gentle green meadows, with skilled people around to help. This was a matter of life and death. Snow whirled around, thicker and thicker, and she knew that dusk was only an hour or so away. The wind was wailing like the devil himself around the white wastes of the snowbound hills. And yet here, just before her eyes, was warmth and life and hope, as the tiny creature staggered to its feet.

  Life, yes—but how much longer would the lamb be able to cling on to life in this chilly wilderness? They all needed shelter, badly. Tassie looked round with straining eyes, trying to pierce the white storm of snow. There was no way she could get them both down into the shelter of the barn. She might just make it to the home farm with the lamb tucked inside her coat, but that would mean leaving the ewe, weak and chilled and full of milk for her lamb, out here alone in the snow. That she could not contemplate.

  Perhaps Will would reach her soon. She crouched over ewe and lamb, trying to shelter them from the worst of the vicious, snow-laden wind; but as the flakes began to settle thickly on her head and her shoulders, she knew she had set herself an almost hopeless task.

  And she had a dreadful feeling, as the snowstorm closed in around her, that Will would never be able to find her now.

  Marcus arrived at Lornings in the late afternoon, just as the snow was taking the countryside in its fierce grip. By changing horses frequently he’d completed the journey from London with just one overnight stop. He was apprehensive, as well as saddle-weary, by the time the snow-encrusted chimneys of the Dower House came into view against the darkening sky.

  How best to explain to Tassie that he had made a terrible mistake about those paintings? A mere apology would not be enough, he knew. Oh, she’d accept it, no doubt, with formal composure. But would he ever again see that look of bright, humorous regard in her expressive eyes? Would she ever again look on him as her friend? He found himself longing for her trust, almost more than anything. He feared, very much, that he had lost it for good. The business of Lornings, he realised suddenly, was no longer occupying the whole of his mind, as it had done for so long.

  He rode his horse into the snow-covered courtyard of the Dower House with a feeling of relief, for the going had been hard, and the roads were, as he’d been warned, impassable for all but the hardiest traveller. As he dismounted, the kitchen door flew open, and Peg came running out to fling her arms round him as Jacob hurried to take his horse’s bridle. Marcus steadied Peg, laughing at the warmth of her embrace.

  ‘You’ve missed me, Peg, haven’t you? And I’ve missed you. Anything good in that oven of yours? I feel as if I haven’t eaten for days.’

  ‘Oh, Master Marcus,’ sobbed Peg. ‘I swear, you won’t want a thing to eat when you hear the news. You see, Miss Tassie’s gone a-missing, sir!’

  Marcus hadn’t realised how utterly weary he was, until that moment. His spirits sank like lead. ‘Gone missing?’ he repeated. ‘You mean that she’s out, in this?’

  Jacob spoke up grimly. ‘She went up after new-born lambs with young Will this afternoon, just as the snow was a-settin’ in. We didn’t know, sir, or we’d have stopped her for sure. Will came back down from the hills just a few moments ago, frozen to the bone. Miss Tassie went on up over the ridge, he said, after a ewe she could hear crying out. He went a-lookin’, calling out for her, but the snow was real bad, and he was carrying two new-born lambs he had to get back to shelter. He hoped she might have found her way back down here.’

  Marcus ran his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘And she hasn’t.’

  He was answered by their silence.

  Peg said tearfully, ‘Will and Jacob, they was all for goin’ up into the hills after her, sir, but Lawd’s sake, how will they find her in this? The snow’ll be two foot thick up on Oaker’s Ridge, and it’ll soon be dark. ‘Tis the worst spring weather we’ve seen in years.’

  Marcus said swiftly, ‘Where is my godfather? Does he know Tassie is missing?’

  ‘Poor Sir Roderick’s bin in his bed these last few days—his joints are real stiff with the cold—and we thought it best not to worry ‘im…Oh, sir, what can we do? That poor lass, out there in all this by herself!’

  Marcus felt desperate with anxiety, yet he knew it was not their fault. He said quickly, ‘She’s plucky and resourceful. She’ll have found somewhere to shelter, never fear. But on no account must she be left to stay out all night. I’m going after her.’

  Peg began to wail again. Jacob said resolutely, ‘Then I’m comin’ with you, Master Marcus! The lad’ll come, too. Real upset about Tassie, he is. He’s just gone to tend to the new-born lambs in the barn, then he’ll be with you,’

  Marcus gently touched the older man’s shoulder. ‘My thanks, Jacob, but this bitter cold will have you frozen up in no time. And Will must be exhausted if he’s already spent all day up on that hillside. No, I shall go alone. I’ll just see my godfather, to tell him I’m back, and in the meantime, Peg, would you get me a small bundle of food together? Bread, cheese, anything.’

  His godfather had been nodding off before the fire, but was sleepily glad to see him. ‘Send Tassie to me later, will you, Marcus?’ he murmured. ‘I’ve a fancy for cards, as well as the sight of her bright smile. She’s a fine lass, that one.’

  ‘I know,’ responded Marcus quietly. He went then to change into a heavy coat, stout leather boots and warm gloves. He pushed a tinderbox into his pocket, and a little silver flask filled with brandy. He worked with swift intensity, trying not to waste time thinking. How long would anyone survive out there on the bleak hillside in this kind of storm? How many hours?

  Of one thing he was certain. Unless he found her swiftly, her life hung in the balance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tassie had managed to carry the lamb a few yards upwind, with the mother ewe stumbling along behind, to the shelter of a nearby wall; but truth to tell, the piled-up stones offered little shelter now, so deep were the sn
owdrifts, so bitter the whirling wind. She knelt over the animals, trying to shelter them with her body; but her teeth were chattering, and her fingers were growing painfully numb in their damp woollen gloves.

  Darkness was setting in. She had never known snow like this before, and still it came, spinning around her in myriad whirling flakes, until there seemed to be nothing else in the whole world.

  Tassie was frightened now. Even if they had come out looking for her, how would they find her in this? She hardly had the energy to shout, and anyway, the wind would whip her words away.

  The little lamb bleated piteously. She hugged it to her, and began to whistle.

  Marcus was on the verge of giving up when he heard that familiar sound. He was so glad, he wanted to shout for joy. For nigh on two hours he’d been searching the snowbound hillside as darkness set in; he was trying not to admit it, but he knew full well that every minute that passed gave him less chance of finding her. Then he heard an almost miraculous sound in the distance—someone was whistling ‘The Bold Ploughboy’. Calling out, ‘Tassie. Tassie, I’m on my way,’ he struggled on knee deep through the drifting snow.

  He found her at last, crouched in the darkness in the lee of a snowbound wall, hugging a tiny lamb in her arms, while a weak, exhausted ewe lay in a snowdrift beside her. Tassie clambered to her feet, still holding the lamb, her wide green eyes wary, her mouth lifting in a tentative, hopeful smile.

  ‘Oh, Marcus,’ she said simply. ‘Marcus, please don’t be angry with me for wearing breeches, or for whistling. I’m so glad to see you.’

  He wanted to pull her into his arms, to warm her with his own body, to cover her precious face with kisses. Instead he touched her cheek with his gloved hand. ‘Hello, minx,’ he said softly. ‘So what, in the name of Methuselah, have you been up to now?’

  She flinched a little, uncertain of him. ‘The ewe was so weak,’ she said quickly. ‘And the lamb—oh, Marcus, how could I leave the lamb?’ As if rejecting the very thought, the tiny animal bleated protestingly.