by Jane Feather
If Chloe resisted entering the chaise, it would create the devil of a scene on this public highway. Nothing was going right, and Crispin wished his stepfather hadn’t put the success of this venture squarely on his shoulders. Control seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know how to adapt the plan to changed circumstance.
“Come on,” he said, looking around impatiently.
“I’m hungry,” Chloe stated. “I only had an apple for breakfast. Why don’t we turn off the road into the field and have some of our picnic? You did say we were going to have a picnic?”
“Yes, but not here.”
“Well, what have you got in the basket? There must be something I could nibble while we ride.”
Crispin had a sudden memory of his companion as an infuriatingly persistent little girl of seven, demanding to know the meaning of a word she’d heard in the stable yard at Gresham Hall. He’d hadn’t known himself, beyond the fact that it was grossly improper, but having pretended he knew, he’d been stuck. Chloe had persisted, although she’d guessed he didn’t know, nagging at him until he’d slapped her. The urge to do the same now was becoming overpowering.
“Wait a few more minutes,” he said tightly. The crossroads was around the next corner, and he gazed anxiously ahead, as if he could make it materialize sooner. Chloe frowned, both puzzled and annoyed. The attentive, generous Crispin of the past few days seemed to have disappeared. Her present companion was much more like the peevish, self-centered boy she remembered from their childhood.
They rounded a corner in the road and she felt Crispin stiffen in his saddle. Curiously, she glanced at him. He had an air of nervous expectancy. He edged his horse closer to hers until their flanks were almost touching. The mare, uncomfortable, whinnied and tried to sidestep. Crispin leaned forward and took hold of Chloe’s rein.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I can manage her perfectly well. Your horse is crowding her.”
When Crispin’s hand remained on her bridle, she felt a flash of unease. She looked ahead.
A post-chaise stood at the crossroads, three men on the ground beside it. They were looking down the road toward the approaching riders. Chloe suddenly knew that something was wrong and that she was in danger. She held herself very still for a second, gathering herself together, like a gazelle scenting the lion.
Then her whip hand lifted and flashed down, catching Crispin across the back of the hand holding her rein, biting through the soft leather glove. He gave a cry of pain, snatching back his hand, and in the same instant, Chloe touched Maid Marion’s flanks and the mare plunged down the road. As they passed the chaise, one of the waiting men gave a shout and leapt into the road after them. Chloe leaned low over the roan’s neck and whispered encouragement, urging her on. The shouts continued behind her, and she could hear the pounding of Crispin’s hooves in pursuit. The stallion was faster than the mare—longer-legged and with a more powerful chest—and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold her lead.
A crowd of banner-waving men and women ahead straggled across the road, and desperately Chloe rode straight into the middle of them. They closed around her like two halves of an oyster around the pearl, and she reined in the mare, afraid she’d trample one of her unwitting escort. Crispin would never be able to get through. And even if he did, it was hard to imagine what he could do in the midst of such a multitude.
The crowd swelled and bore her onward toward the city. She couldn’t escape the throng even if she wanted to, so she allowed herself to be carried forward even while she wondered what they were doing and where they were going.
Hugo was informed by a hedge-cutter that a young man and woman had ridden by on the Manchester road about an hour previously. Satisfied that he was on the right track, he pressed his horse into a gallop. The question was: Had they turned off toward Shipton or continued toward the city? Luck was on his side, however, and at the turning a small boy fishing in the ditch with a worm on a bent pin volunteered the information that a geezer on a black horse and a lady on a roan had gone by toward Manchester. He remembered them because the lady had slowed her horse and asked if he’d managed to catch anything yet.
It sounded like Chloe. But what the devil had they in mind? Were they going to hide her in the city? It would be easy enough to do.
Hugo hesitated for a moment, wondering if he’d do better to go to Shipton anyway and pry what information he could out of its inhabitants. But there was still the faint chance that he could catch up with them before they reached the city. Something could have happened to delay them. Hoping fervently that Chloe would continue to dawdle by the roadside, exchanging greetings with avid young fishermen, he rode on.
The crowds on the road slowed him, but he assumed they would have slowed his quarry also. Vaguely, he wondered what was going on, but he was too intent on pursuit to give it much thought. And then he saw Crispin.
The young man was fighting his way against the crowd, amazingly riding toward Hugo. Hugo pulled his horse into the side of the road in the relative concealment of a massive oak tree and sat calmly waiting for him to come abreast. Since Chloe was not with Crispin, it was to be assumed she’d already been dispatched to her destination. Had they put her in a carriage?
The question was only mildly speculative, since the answer was fast approaching as Crispin slashed with his whip to the left and right, freeing himself from the mob’s embrace.
He finally broke out and heaved a sigh of relief. It was short-lived. Hugo Lattimer materialized on the road in front of him.
“A happy meeting, Crispin.” Sir Hugo was smiling at him, but it was a smile that sent shivers up Crispin’s spine. There was something ineffably menacing about the set of his unshaven jaw; the green eyes had fire in their depths. Although Hugo’s mouth smiled, Crispin had the horrible sensation that he was about to be devoured.
Crispin raised his whip to strike his mount’s hindquarters. At the same instant Hugo leaned over in an almost leisurely motion and caught his wrist. Crispin gasped at the pain as the gloved fingers tightened. The whip fell to the ground.
“Now,” Hugo said, still pleasantly, “let us move out of the road, Crispin. I don’t believe we can have a tranquil chat in all this brouhaha.” He released his wrist and took his bridle instead. Perforce, Crispin sat his horse as he was led into the shadow of the oak tree.
“Do dismount.”
The invitation was delivered with the same smile but cut with a razor’s edge.
“I protest—”
“No … no, Crispin, such a waste of time,” Hugo said, swinging off his horse, hooking Crispin’s bridle over his arm. “Do you care to dismount with my assistance?” He drew off his gloves with a threatening purposefulness and stood slapping them in his palm, still smiling.
Crispin felt as powerless as if he were back at school, facing the absolute power of authority. Almost mesmerized, he swung obediently from his horse.
“Wise,” Hugo commented, shaking off the bridle and leaning against the trunk of the oak with an appearance of nonchalance. But the physical force emanating from the large frame made Crispin feel like a midget.
“Now,” Hugo said, “to points, Crispin. Where, pray, is my ward?”
“Chloe?”
“The very same.”
“How should I know?” Sullenness was the best he could muster.
“Well, I should rather imagine you would know since she was obliging … or perhaps prudent … enough to tell me that she rode out with you earlier this morning.” The smile had vanished and the green eyes now burned with a glacial glitter.
“This is absurd.” Crispin tried bluster. He turned back to his horse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir Hugo. Chloe is your responsibility, not mine, and if your hand isn’t strong enough on her bridle, then it’s hardly my fault.” He gasped as two hands closed around his throat from the back.
“Oh, make no mistake, my friend. My hands are strong enough,” Hugo said softly.
/> Crispin could feel Hugo’s breath on his neck. He tried to move his head, but the long, white fingers tightened … and tightened.
“Where is she?”
He choked, shook his head. The pressure increased on his windpipe. He was suffocating, his chest heaving.
“Where is she?” The inexorable question was breathed into his ear. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he felt as if his chest were about to burst. “Where is she?”
His shoulders slumped as he struggled to speak. Mercifully, the pressure lessened and the question was asked again.
“Don’t know,” he choked out.
The vise tightened again, and Crispin thought his head would explode with his lungs. A red mist threatened to swallow him. “Truly,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Explain.” The hands relaxed just enough for him to do so. In a heaving gasping whisper he said that Chloe, for some unknown reason, had left him and bolted with her horse toward the city.
Hugo removed his hands from Crispin’s throat and dusted them off with a grimace. “I’m sure you know the reason, but it can wait. You may leave. And you may tell Jasper that it’s the mark of a coward to hide behind the ineffectual incompetence of his minions. If he wants to do battle, then I’m ready and waiting … I have been for fourteen years,” he added. “Tell him, Crispin.”
He stood back and watched as the young man remounted, his face red and mottled, one hand unconsciously stroking his throat where the finger bruises purpled on the delicate skin.
Crispin’s throat was too sore for a reply even if he’d been able to think of one. For one terrifying moment he had faced his own death by strangulation. He had never imagined such power in a man’s fingers. He rode off, bending low over his horse.
Hugo thoughtfully flexed his fingers. A musician’s fingers. Delicate and sensitive. A smile of satisfaction touched his lips, then he remounted and turned his horse toward Manchester, where presumably Chloe was to be found, caught up in the crowd. But what the hell were they all up to?
And then he remembered. It was Monday, August sixteen. The day Orator Hunt was to address the Reform Meeting at St. Peter’s Fields. The demand was for manhood suffrage and the magistrates would be prepared for the worst.
He turned his horse off the road and rode across country, skirting the crowds in his haste to reach the city.
Chloe stayed with the crowd as it surged onto St. Peter’s Fields. The excitement was infectious, and she pushed speculation about Crispin and the post-chaise to one side for the moment. It was all very interesting, and clearly she’d have to discuss it with Hugo, but there wasn’t much to be done about it now.
People continued to pour onto the field, a torrent of humanity waving banners and shouting. An air of good humor pervaded the mass, with children playing and tumbling underfoot and young couples, arms entwined, exchanging surreptitious kisses. The hustings were hung with brightly colored flags, others waved gaily from flagpoles. The crowd jostled and chanted on the field, gazing eagerly toward the platform where Orator Hunt would soon step up to speak.
Chloe sat her horse on the outskirts of the throng. She had a clear view over the crowd to the hustings and watched as a party of men climbed onto the platform. A great roar of welcome went up from the gathering and the chant of “Votes for workers” swelled on the sultry summer breeze.
A man in an unusual white top hat stepped to the edge of the platform and the crowd roared louder. The man who’d told them about the Reform Meeting that day she and Hugo had come to Manchester had worn a white top hat, Chloe remembered. Presumably it was some kind of membership insignia.
Orator Hunt’s voice rose above the crowd, which fell into a murmuring quiet. But whenever the speaker paused for effect, they roared approval and chanted his name.
Chloe’s blood stirred as she strained to hear the orator over the crowd, and then she became aware of a different sound, a strange murmuring coming from one section of the meeting. She swiveled in the saddle and looked toward a church at the far side of the field.
“It must be the folks from Blackburn comin’,” a burly man in a cobbler’s apron declared from the ground beside her. There was a murmur of agreement as people stood on tiptoe to peer over heads to see what was causing the disturbance.
“It’s soldiers,” Chloe said. A troop of cavalry in blue and white uniforms trotted around the corner of a garden wall. The sun glinted on the unsheathed blades they held. Wheeling in formation, they lined up in front of a row of houses overlooking the field and facing the hustings.
A shout went up from the crowd, but it sounded perfectly good-humored to Chloe, more of a welcome than anything. And then it happened.
The cavalry rose in their stirrups and waved their sabers over their heads. Someone shouted an order and with a cry the soldiers spurred their horses and charged the front ranks of the throng, slashing right and left with their swords.
Chloe stared in horrified disbelief as the front ranks swayed before the cavalry charge and the air was rent with screams. Around her people were shouting, “Stand fast … stand fast.” The crowd stood its ground and the soldiers fell back for a minute, unable to force their way through the compact press of humanity to reach Orator Hunt. Then they charged again, their swords chopping and hacking at the people blocking them. Chloe could see spurting blood, and the screams grew agonized, interspersed with groans and cries of terror.
“Break!” someone yelled. “They’re killing them and they can’t get away.” And the cry was taken up. “Break … break.” The crowd held still, as if drawing breath, and then with a rumbling roar surged and broke apart. It was like a tidal wave, immense and unstoppable. Maid Marion whinnied with fear as the mass of people eddied around her, and Chloe knew she would have bolted if she could have pushed through. Holding tight to the reins, desperate to prevent her from rearing and causing even more havoc to the hapless foot traffic around her, she struggled to guide the mare out of the crowd. All around, people were being trampled in the mob’s terror-struck frenzy. The yeomanry charged through them wherever there was an opening, hewing at heads and hands and arms as they forced their way to the hustings and the man they’d come to arrest.
A child fell to the ground and screamed in terror as feet pounded around him. Chloe flung herself from Maid Marion, sweeping the child up. Leading the horse, she clutched the boy against her, stumbling as the mob propelled her forward.
She reached the relative safety of a garden on the outskirts of the field. Maid Marion was sweating and trembling, her eyes rolling, the whites glaring. Chloe set the child on his feet. He stared at her for a moment in shock and then picked up his heels and ran.
Presumably he knew his way home. Chloe felt sick with a rage greater than any she had known. The mob teemed past the garden and suddenly it was quiet. The field, which ten minutes ago had been a maelstrom of humanity, was almost deserted. The hustings were a wrecked heap of broken spars, the remnants of flags fluttering on the flagstaffs, torn banners lying crumpled in the dirt. And beneath the pitiless glare of the August sun, bodies lay as they’d fallen, one on top of another, crushed and suffocated, trampled and cut. The dry grass was littered with the bright fragments of clothes, hats and bonnets, shoes, that had been ripped from bodies in the stampede.
Chloe tied the mare to the garden gate and moved out onto the field. The yeomanry had dismounted and stood around, wiping their sabers, loosening the girths of their horses. The humid air was alive with groans emerging from the mounded bodies and the whinnies of the horses as they pawed the earth and smelled blood.
Other people now appeared on the field, bending over bodies. Chloe knelt beside a young woman, bleeding from a sword cut to her breast. She was alive, though, and her eyelids fluttered. Chloe lifted the skirt of her habit and tore a strip from her petticoat, using it to staunch the blood. Two men passed by, carrying a dead man. An elderly man staggered along, leaning on the arm of a young lad. His lips were blue in his waxen face and he was wheezin
g painfully.
“I’ll take ’er now, miss,” a voice said softly. A man bent and picked up the young woman. “Thankee kindly.” His eyes were blank, his voice flat.
Chloe wandered over the battlefield, helping where she could as people lifted bodies off bodies, releasing the survivors and the wounded from the suffocating press of flesh.
They were all stunned, moving as if in a trance, saying little or nothing. Out of the sixty thousand peaceful people at St. Peter’s Fields that afternoon, four hundred had been wounded and nine men and two women killed by a troop of yeomanry ordered by the city magistrates to arrest Orator Hunt.
Chapter 11
HUGO WAS RIDING fast down Market Street in the eerily deserted city when the rumble, like low thunder, reached him from St. Peter’s Fields. His horse started, lifting his head, nostrils flaring. Then the screams came and ice water ran in Hugo’s veins. He turned down Cross Street, spurring his horse. People surged toward him, screaming “Cavalry” in warning and explanation as they ran.
The magistrates must have panicked, as he’d been afraid they would. But how the hell would he ever find Chloe in this mob? He rode on against the tide of humanity, searching the crowd. He turned the corner by the church, reaching the field as the last of the fleeing throng rushed past him. He sat his horse, feeling sick as he took in the carnage on the littered field. Was Chloe somewhere at the bottom of one of those misshapen mounds of tangled limbs? She was so tiny, she couldn’t possibly survive such a crush.
He dismounted and tethered his horse to a post by the church. Then he walked onto the field. He saw her almost immediately, on her knees beside a prone body. She had lost her hat and her hair was escaping from its pins. It threw off the sun’s radiance in a luminous glory of luster and color that was almost shocking against the grimness of the scene.
“Chloe!” He yelled her name across the space that separated them, his knees abruptly weakening with relief.
