“I say we shoot him now and get it over with.” The voice was a low growl I recognised as Mr. Merryman’s.
“My dear fellow.” Mr. Chalmers’s voice was as cool as before. “Do try not to be more of an idiot than you can help. A shot would bring out the servants from the house—and we would be left with a dead body on our hands and a great deal of unpleasant explaining to do.”
“What’s to explain?” Merryman grunted. “He’s a gypsy. We just say we caught him sneakin’ in, trying to steal. No one’ll question it or care what we did to him. What’s one dead gyppo?”
“Hmmm.” I could feel Mr. Chalmers giving consideration to that argument. Which—I knew myself with stomach-churning certainty—might well be all too true.
I straightened up enough that I could peer over the top of the wall into the moonlit yard. I had only a brief glimpse before I ducked back down—but it was enough to burn the scene permanently into my mind’s eye. Mr. Chalmers was standing with his back to me, his bulk encased in a heavy wool greatcoat. Mr. Merryman faced him—and me—holding tight to their prisoner: Jamie, his face hard and expressionless as a mask carved in stone.
I leaned against the wall, pressing my eyes closed and telling myself fiercely that Jamie was alive—and that so long as he remained so, there was a chance yet that I might save him. He might be injured—I suspected he was; my brief glimpse had shown a cut lip and a trickle of blood along the side of his mouth. But he had also plainly not gone down without a fight. Mr. Merryman was sporting a spectacularly swollen black eye and a torn mouth, as well.
Jamie’s hands were tied behind him, though. And Mr. Merryman held a heavy flint-lock pistol, the muzzle pressing against Jamie’s neck under his chin. Any moment, a twitch of Mr. Merryman’s finger, and Jamie would be gone.
“True, we could likely pass off killing him easily enough,” Mr. Chalmers said at last. I could hear genuine regret in his voice. “But it would still likely result in complications. Mrs. Whetherstone’s agent, Mr. Phillips—officious man—has already talked about hiring on extra servants for security after the supposed theft of my horse last month. Add a dead gypsy, and he would unquestionably bring on added manpower—which would be very inconvenient, since we have yet to shift all the brandy from the cellars.” There was a pause, in which I imagined Mr. Chalmers pursing his lips. “Really, the way the inconveniences and difficulties have piled up of late are beyond belief. First we had to shift the whole lot from Rosford over to here—and in a hurry. And now, just days before I am expecting my agents from London to come and take the goods off my hands, it looks as though we may be called on to move it again. Really”—for the first time, a hint of anger crept into his cold, drawling tones—“anyone would think that I might have enough sense not to let any more of your filthy breed into my employ. First that brother of yours takes it into his head to develop a conscience and bolts—with my most valuable horse, I might add. And now you turn out to be a bloody agent of the Crown.”
“Sam—” Jamie spoke for the first time. His voice sounded hoarse—and unwilling, as though the words were dragged from him. He would hate having to ask Mr. Chalmers and Merryman for information. Yet he could not let that go by. “Sam is not dead?”
“That I do not know.” Mr. Chalmers’s tone was cold. “I sincerely hope he may be. He wished to exit my employ, so much was true. Mr. Merryman brought him here to … discuss the matter. But he contrived to escape—on the back of a valuable Arabian mare. She was breeding, as well. The foal would have been worth a great deal of money, coming from such stock.”
I felt the shock of the words beating all the way to the tips of my fingers—and I could only imagine how Jamie must feel. Sam was alive. Or he had been a month ago. And he was responsible for Star’s escape, as well.
“Oh, get him out of my sight, Merryman.” Mr. Chalmers voice was disgusted—with a faint echo of his usual petulant tones. “Take him well away from here where no one will hear the shot and get rid of him—and try to do it properly, this time.”
A moment later, the wooden gate creaked open and Mr. Chalmers stumped by me—passing so close that I might have touched him if I had reached out a hand from where I crouched. But he never so much as glanced in my direction, only waddled with his rolling gait back towards the house.
“All right, you heard the Captain,” Mr. Merryman ground out from inside the yard. “Move. And no dawdling, or I may decide to shoot you where you stand after all.”
I stayed frozen, pressing myself so hard against the stones at my back that it felt as though their uneven shapes would leave permanent imprints in my shoulders. Jamie and Mr. Merryman came through the gate next, Jamie walking ahead and Mr. Merryman behind—with the muzzle of the pistol now prodding Jamie in the back. I waited until they had gone perhaps fifty paces away from me, down along the drive. Then—slowly, slowly—I uncurled myself, stood up, and began to follow, my heart pounding so hard it felt as though it would break through my ribs.
I have only rarely heard Colonel Brandon talk about his time on campaign with the army. He does not like to speak of the death and suffering he has seen, Marianne says. But he has once or twice that I can recall shared a story or reminiscence. And something he said of a skirmish he once fought in the East Indies had lodged unaccountably in my mind, and returned now. If you have the chance to choose your ground, to pick the place where you make your stand and fight, he had said, you must do it with very great care. For it may be your single best advantage in the battle to come.
All the while I was trailing Jamie and Mr. Merryman along the sweep of the drive, the words rang in my ears, seeming to echo the harsh rasp of my own breathing. Choose your ground. But where? Where could I fight a heavyset man armed with a pistol—and how?
Overhead in the trees, a night-bird let out a cry—making me nearly jump out of my skin. And then I froze, struck by the force of the idea that swept through me like a gust of frigid wind. Mr. Merryman was following the curve of the drive—unwilling, no doubt, to risk giving Jamie a chance of escape by choosing a course through the cover of the woods that lined the drive. But the path the drive took was by no means the most direct route. I knew from traversing it earlier that it meandered and curved maddeningly—or rather, it had been maddening before. But now that meant that if I chose a path through the wooded area, there was a chance I might overtake Jamie and Mr. Merryman and come out up ahead.
Without letting myself stop to consider the madness of what I was doing, I plunged into the trees—blessing the light breeze that had sprung up, covering the rustling sounds of my footsteps. Going as fast as I dared—praying that my sense of direction would be accurate—I ran ahead, towards the point where I judged that the drive would make another curve, and so re-cross my path. Sweat dampened my hair and made my skin itch beneath my gown when at last I saw the trees thinning up ahead. And for an instant, I thought I might have missed them after all, for when I peered cautiously out from the cover of branches, I saw no sign of them. But then they came into view around a curve in the road: Jamie ahead, Mr. Merryman behind, as before.
There was moonlight enough for me to see that Jamie’s whole body was tensed, waiting. And he was trying to distract Mr. Merryman with an effort to get the older man to talk. I knew with a certainty that it was a distraction; that Jamie, too, was trying to choose his ground to fight.
I heard him say, “Mr. Chalmers’s aunt won’t think it strange for him to end his visit so suddenly?”
Mr. Merryman gave a grating laugh. “The old woman’s not even his aunt. The Captain just showed up one day and claimed to be Mrs. Whetherstone’s nephew, returned from abroad to pay her a long overdue visit. The servants just took his word for it. And the old lady’s gone too soft in the head to know the difference herself—or to tell anyone if she did know.”
I felt a slow burn of anger at Mr. Merryman’s words—at the way he and Mr. Chalmers had taken cold-blooded advantage of an ill and helpless old woman. But time was running out; if I was
going to make a stand and fight, it had to be here—now. I forced the anger down, grasped one of the lower branches of the nearest tree—one whose limbs overhung the drive—and swung myself up.
I heard a rending tear of fabric as I clambered up. The skirt of the blue silk gown must have caught on a branch or twig—and I sent up a mental apology to Marianne, and a promise to pay for the damages. Assuming that I survived the night.
Mr. Merryman must have heard the noise, as well. From my perch amidst the cover of the leaves, I could no longer see him or the drive—but I heard him say, sharply, “What was that?”
I clung to the tree branches, motionless, not daring to move or breathe, counting the beats of my heart. Six … seven … and finally, I heard Mr. Merryman’s and Jamie’s footsteps coming on again, moving towards me. Slowly, carefully, I edged my way out from the trunk, out along a thick, sturdy branch that overhung the drive. I was exposed, now—if either of the men had happened to look up, they would have seen me. But neither did. Prodding Jamie forward with the pistol, Mr. Merryman moved towards the main gates up ahead. Farther … farther.
Holding my breath, I waited until he passed directly beneath me. And then with a brief prayer that I would not break both my legs, I swung down from the tree branch and dropped onto Mr. Merryman’s back.
After that—
This is a part that is all a confused blur in my memory. I remember the shock of impact as I struck Mr. Merryman and we both of us crashed to the ground. I remember his yell of surprise and the roar of the pistol. That was something I had not calculated for, that the shock of my striking him would cause him to fire off the pistol after all. I remember struggling upright, choked with the fear that the shot had hit Jamie—that in trying to save him, I had only hastened his death. And I remember—I think I remember—hearing Star’s frightened whinny in the distance, and the pounding of her hooves.
Though I am not certain of the last. I may be only filling in that detail from the story that was told to me afterwards, after I woke.
What I do know was that there was a sudden smashing pain in my head. Lights exploded behind my eyes and seemed to ricochet off the walls of my skull. Then a great wave of blackness seemed to rise up and swallow me whole.
Saturday 3 July 1802
Marianne did come in last night to confiscate both my pen and this book. She saw the light from my candle under my door and came in to order me to go to bed.
Though she did not have to try very hard. My head was aching, my hand had cramped from holding the pen for so long. And besides, this is the part of the story that I hate having to write most of all.
When I first woke yesterday, and found myself lying in my familiar bed at Delaford with the portrait of King Henry leering at me from the mantel, it all seemed a dream. Though the next moment, the Henry painting brought everything back in a horrible, sickening rush. I sat bolt upright—nearly frightening the young housemaid who had been charged with sitting beside my bed out of her wits. I was demanding that she tell me what had happened—everything that had happened—when Marianne came running into the room.
“Jamie?” I asked; my first thought of course was of him. “Is he—”
“He is alive—alive and unharmed. It was he who carried you back here. Do you not remember anything?”
I shook my head—and instantly wished that I had not, since it sent a fresh wave of stomach-lurching pain through my skull.
Marianne perched on the side of my bed, dismissing the housemaid with a smile and a nod of thanks. “Lie down,” she told me. “I will tell you everything—but only if you promise to lie there and listen quietly and not do yourself a mischief.”
I obeyed, leaning back against the pillows while Marianne told me the whole. After Mr. Merryman had struck me unconscious—with the butt of his pistol, according to what Jamie had told Marianne—there was a struggle. Jamie might have been overpowered; his hands were still bound behind his back. But at that moment, Star came bursting onto the scene. The knots I had tied had not held her; she had slipped free and evidently come to find me. At the sight of Mr. Merryman, she had gone crazy—rearing and bucking wildly, lashing out so that Jamie very narrowly avoided being injured himself. And Mr. Merryman had been felled; struck in the head by one of her flailing hooves. After that, Jamie had been able to use Merryman’s knife to sever his own bonds—and had managed to calm Star enough that he could mount her and ride her—with my unconscious weight in his arms—back to Delaford.
“He looked absolutely wild,” Marianne said. “He thought you were dying—or already dead. We all did. You were so white and still, and the back of your head was all over blood from where that brute had struck you. Jamie told Christopher’s men where to go, that they might apprehend Mr. Chalmers and Mr. Merryman. But he would not ride back to guide them there himself—he would not leave you. He haunted your bedside all that night and the next day, as well, until the surgeon declared you out of danger.”
Yet Jamie was unquestionably not there beside my bed anymore. And when Marianne glanced at me, I thought there was a flash of something like pity in her gaze. Beneath the throbbing in my head, I felt …
It was something like when you stub your toe—or slip and cut your hand with a paper knife—and there is a brief second of time when you do not yet feel any hurt. You know the pain is coming, but it has not yet arrived.
That was how I felt—and cowardly though it was, I could not face accelerating the onset of the pain by asking any more questions about Jamie yet. Instead, I moistened my lips and asked, “Mr. Chalmers? Was he captured, then?”
Marianne shook her head with regret. “No. By the time Christopher’s men arrived, he had got away. Though they did find some fifty casks of brandy hidden in the Dumbroke cellars. And they found some of his papers in the room he had been occupying. He had tried to burn them, but he was in a hurry to get away. Not all of the papers were destroyed.” Marianne swallowed, her face sober. “There were maps—maps of the coast. Observations about our patrols, the movements of our naval ships. It looks as though he really was spying—selling information to France.”
I shivered. “He played his part very well. I would never have suspected him.”
“I know. He even spoke—and spoke readily—of French spies. Trying to cast suspicion on M. de Courtenay,” Marianne said. Her face darkened. “At least he did not succeed there. But who knows how much harm he might have done if he had remained in the neighbourhood for longer?” She shook her head and added, “They did at least apprehend Mr. Merryman—it may be that with what Merryman can tell them of the smuggling operation, they will be able to track down Mr. Chalmers yet.”
I started to nod, but checked the movement in time. “Then Colonel Brandon is—”
Marianne smiled at that, looking happier and more free of worry than she had since entering the room. “He is quite well—already up and even walking, with the use of a cane. The surgeon says he will make a full recovery.”
“I am so glad.” I hesitated, then asked. “And … Willoughby?”
A slight shadow clouded Marianne’s gaze. “Gone. He and Sophia both—they must have fled the neighbourhood directly from the ball, when they heard that Christopher had been shot. I suppose they are gone back to their own estate in Somersetshire. Christopher could try to pursue them, but …”
“But prosecuting him might bring to light details which neither you nor Colonel Brandon would wish to become public knowledge.”
“Well, yes.” Marianne’s lips curved in a wry smile. “It might be a little awkward for Christopher to explain that he first came to suspect Willoughby because his wife had been carrying on a false dalliance with the man. Not that I regret it for a moment, nor does Christopher, but …” Marianne trailed off, raising her shoulders in a shrug. “It does not really matter. I believe the fright Willoughby has had will keep him on the right side of the law from now on. And he was not truly involved in the smuggling in any case. He sent me a letter. It arrived the day after
he was discovered to have fled. He writes that he and Sophia came into the neighbourhood so that Sophia might pursue her scheme of adopting Joanna—just as they said. It was only afterwards that Mr. Chalmers approached Willoughby and offered him a hefty sum of money for access to the Rosford Abbey crypt. Mr. Chalmers had apparently heard of Willoughby’s gambling debts and thought he might not be averse to an easy way of earning ready money. Willoughby swore that at first he had no idea of why Mr. Chalmers wanted the use of the crypt tunnels. And then once he did learn the truth of the smuggling scheme, Mr. Chalmers kept him from breaking the arrangement or going to the authorities by threatening to have his men harm Joanna … or me … if Willoughby told anyone.”
“And you believe him?” I asked. “Willoughby, I mean.”
“I think I do, yes.” Marianne did not look grieved or sad—only thoughtful. “Here.” She withdrew a pair of folded sheets from her pocket and handed them to me. “You can read his letter for yourself, if you like.”
The effort of reading the letter made my head ache even more fiercely. But I scanned the lines. It was just as Marianne had said: in hastily scrawled words, the handwriting uneven, as though his fingers had been shaking as he wrote—Willoughby had given an account of his involvement with Mr. Chalmers, the same one Marianne had just given me. Some, given Willoughby’s history, might doubt the truth of his version of the story—but for me, the words rang true. As did his final lines:
I regret everything—and deceiving you, most of all. Chalmers asked—blackmailed—me into using our association to learn all I could of Colonel Brandon’s movements and plans.
And yet, can it properly be called blackmail, when cultivating an association with you was also the most hidden desire of my heart? In that it permitted me to see you, to hold you and speak with you again—I cannot regret what has happened at all. To a man dying of hunger in the desert, every crumb appears a feast—and for me each and every glimpse of your face is as such a feast to a starving man.
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 24
