by Regan Walker
The other men welcomed George warmly, and the young man, nodding a greeting to Martin, said to Oliver, “Have I missed much, sir?”
“Not at all. I’ve just been saying that everyone in the south is ready to rise, but the folks in London I represent will not be satisfied unless Nottingham is secure, for there can be no denying that it is the rallying point for Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and Leicestershire, essential to our cause.”
Jeremiah Brandreth was quick to give assurance. “Aye, and the men of Nottingham are with us, Oliver.”
“’Tis good they are,” replied Sidmouth’s spy. “In my travels around the Midlands, I see thousands of men ready to join us in demanding Parliamentary reform. Why, the lads of Yorkshire and Lancashire can hardly be kept down they’re so anxious to begin. From Nottingham we must press on to London, joining with those in the south who are ready to fight. Ye’ll find London ripe for revolution. I am only here to see that all is ready before I meself return.”
Martin and John exchanged a look. Neither was surprised to learn Oliver would soon leave for London. Having stirred the embers of rebellion in the Midlands, he would want to be gone when they finally caught and flamed into a full-scale insurrection.
Before Martin could think of how to inject some sanity, Isaac Ludlam raised a reasonable question. “Are ye certain the Midlands are ready for this, Oliver?”
Sidmouth’s man looked at him, surprised and a perhaps a little annoyed. “O’ course I am, Isaac. Half the country is organized, ’specially the manufacturing districts. I tell ye, the men are ready to rebel against the government. It is time for all good men to have a vote!”
“That may be, Oliver, but I still have a few concerns,” said Isaac’s friend William Turner. “People are unhappy, and some in dire straits to be sure, but not many would fight the government. ’Tis like fighting against the wind.”
Oliver was undaunted. “Yer wrong, Will. It was only with a great deal of explaining that I was able to prevent some towns from taking up arms too soon.”
“I grant ye there’s been trouble,” Turner continued, “but while many families have faced grave difficulty, Derbyshire seems set in the ways of the past.”
Oliver looked around, and his eyes came to rest on Jeremiah Brandreth. “That will soon change. I would ask ye good men of Derbyshire to do something, even if ’tis only a token gesture. My London Committee will expect it. The main business will be done there, o’ course, where seventy thousand armed men can be raised at an hour or two’s notice.”
Martin was appalled to see how far matters had gone and the direct way Oliver, fluent know-nothing that he was, actively encouraged impoverished and reticent men to revolt. He was calling for nothing short of a march on London, telling these poor country fools there were thousands of men willing to join them. Like lambs led to slaughter, they were unaware of the perfidy of the goat that was drawing them ever nearer to disaster.
He and John exchanged a look of concern, his young assistant appearing equally disgusted at the sheer folly of the course of action being advocated. Oliver wanted a demonstration of force that would satisfy his superiors in London, but Martin hoped to forestall such an event. A rebellion might never occur without such an agent provocateur. Perhaps Ormond would, in response to Martin’s note, persuade the Prince Regent there was still time to stop what was developing in this peaceful Derbyshire. Martin prayed it was so.
A slightly crazed look about him, Jeremiah Brandreth suddenly exclaimed, “Well, I for one am ready to join those in London. I’ve had enough of the government’s bare rations of liberty. Oliver’s right. We must have change!”
That frenzied gleam in his eyes was worrisome. Of all the men Martin had met on this mission, the Nottingham Captain appeared the most dangerous. If Oliver was a schemer, Brandreth was a zealot. It was impossible to predict what he might do. Worst of all, he seemed able to stir the men of Derbyshire into an action they would not otherwise take. Active rebellion suddenly loomed large.
The man set eyes on his partner in lunacy. “Will you fix a date for the general rising, Oliver?”
“Aye, now that you have assured me the Nottingham folks are with us. We can talk of that when we meet again in a few days. And once the date for the uprising is set, I will be returning to London to make sure all is ready there.”
Chapter 17
Entering the Dog Inn, Kit set her sketchbook aside and looked around its common room. A cheery place, several sets of windows bathed the space in warm sunlight. Only a few villagers were eating: it was too early for a crowd in the tavern.
An older woman with gray hair greeted her. “Good day ta ye. I am Martha Onion. You must be visiting Pentridge.”
Kit said, “Yes, Mrs. Onion. I’m Mrs. Donet. Pleased to meet you.”
“The wife of the gentleman at the meeting upstairs?”
“I’m sorry,” said Kit, surprised. “The meeting upstairs?”
“Why, I do believe that a Mr. Donet, a Frenchman and his friend, were two of the ones who came to see Mr. Oliver today.”
Kit was confused. What could he be doing here? She hadn’t known Martin was meeting someone at the Dog Inn, and neither had she known he was posing as a Frenchman, even if it made sense considering the name he was using. But, then, he’d left the inn before she arose and was therefore given no time to inform her. Perhaps she should act like she was aware of his plans.
“Yes, my husband did mention a meeting,” she allowed. “Upstairs, you say?”
“Aye, the lot of them. Drinking and planning for the uprising, you see. ’Twill be a grand affair when the new government is in place. My own husband John is there with them. He’s hoping to gain a position ’longside Mr. Oliver and Capt’n Brandreth.”
“Of course,” Kit said. Then she smiled and asked for a table, deciding to have some luncheon while she pondered the woman’s words.
A Frenchman! What could he be doing in Derbyshire posing as a Frenchman? Frustrated by being left out in the cold and wondering what her new husband was up to, she slammed her sketchbook down on the table. Then, after quickly eating a bowl of mutton stew and crusty bread, she tucked her sketchbook under her arm and quietly stole upstairs. If Martin wasn’t going to tell her what was happening, she would find out for herself.
A door in the corridor was ajar. As she approached, the sounds of men’s voices floated out to where she was standing. Through the slight opening Kit saw a handful of men, including Martin and John and George Weightman from the White Horse, sitting around a table. She listened attentively, hoping to catch a word but never expecting to hear what she did. There sat her handsome husband, John next to him, drinking with men who spoke about taking up arms against the British government. The face of the one called the Nottingham Captain was particularly arresting.
Aghast, Kit flattened herself against the wall, heart thumping. Had she heard right? A march on London! Was the man to whom she’d given her heart and body a traitor? Was he plotting revolution? No wonder they were here under an assumed name! Did Mary and her husband know of this? She was certain they did not, since Mary had been unable to give Kit any details of Martin’s work or why they were even traveling to the Midlands.
Images of Martin darted through her mind. He had been in France, and his voice still carried traces of that time. Had he been working for England’s enemy even then? But, Mary had told her he’d toiled with Ormond. Kit’s thoughts were a jumble as she considered the possibilities. Perhaps he’d once worked for England but now sought revolution. After all, his grandfather was a French pirate.
The men continued to talk, their conversation focused on a meeting to set the date for an “uprising.” Oh my God. How was she to live with a traitor? How could she be loyal to him and loyal to her country? And, if he did plot against the Crown, should she try and stop him?
The noise of chairs sliding back over the wooden floor announced the men were rising to leave. She couldn’t be caught there. Not by revolutionaries. Turning, s
he fled down the stairs and out the door.
* * *
Riding along the dirt road to Pentridge, the Earl of Rutledge contemplated what manner of chap was Castlereagh’s man in Derbyshire. Could this William Oliver actually rouse the north counties as Castlereagh hinted during their meeting in London? Rutledge hoped it was so, for if it was, and if he himself could manage things from this end, assuring there were enough men to put down the manufactured rebellion, assuring the rebels were captured, Castlereagh and Sidmouth would have all they needed to justify the additional measures the government intended to impose on the populace. Then he, the Earl of Rutledge, would finally have the reward he’d been seeking: a new position in Liverpool’s government and the recognition he well deserved.
Along those lines, he also wondered if he could believe the words of the magistrate with whom he’d just spoken.
“My lord, all has been made ready, I assure you,” Edward Mundy promised, albeit nervously. A man going to fat with bulging eyes, he didn’t seem much the magistrate. Rutledge had expected a man with proper military demeanor and discipline. “I’ve been told by my men over a hundred of the seven hundred workers at the Butterley Ironworks just down the road from Pentridge have been sworn in as special constables, and we’ve twenty fully armed officers of the Fifteenth Light Dragoons on hold at Nottingham in anticipation of the uprising.”
“And when might you be expecting that uprising?”
The magistrate squirmed under Rutledge’s harsh glare. “Oliver says ’twill be the ninth of June, my lord.”
Rutledge allowed his most imperious scowl to fix the fidgeting man. “See that a messenger is sent to Castlereagh on my behalf so advising him. And these special constables you speak of must be ready to move on the day set.” He’d turned to leave then added, “They’d best be ready or there will be hell to pay.”
Now entering Pentridge, he was still lost in the recollection, pondering whether or not the jittery magistrate could be counted upon, when a woman darted across the path of his horse. With a start, Rutledge reined in to avoid her. Fool chit!
Her auburn hair immediately drew his attention, and from the direction she was fleeing it seemed she’d just left his intended destination, the Dog Inn. Then he noticed the familiar profile as she paused before hurrying down the road.
My God. It’s Katherine.
He would know that face, that hair anywhere. But what the devil was she doing in Pentridge? Had she flown so far to escape him? A smile slowly formed on the earl’s face as he considered the possibility. By Jove, what a fortunate development. Small wonder his runners could not find her. Ah, but this was too sweet. The hare had come to the hound!
He veered from his course, slowly walking his horse a short distance behind her. Oblivious to his presence, Katherine ducked hurriedly into the White Horse Inn.
Rutledge pulled up before the stone lodging house, dismounted, and tied his horse to the post, carefully stepping inside. Katherine was nowhere in sight, but a young man with blond hair approached.
“Good day to ye, sir. My mother the proprietress is not in at the moment. Would ye be needing a room?”
“No, my good man. I require only information,” Rutledge said. Then he allowed a brief inspection of his fine garments, knowing they would get him information that would not normally be shared.
“Of course, m’lord,” the proprietress’s son said. “What information would ye be wanting?”
“The young woman who just entered. The redhead. Is she a guest of the inn?”
“Why, yes, m’lord. Ye speak of Mrs. Donet.”
“Mrs. Donet?” Rutledge repeated, dubious.
“She and her husband, a Frenchman, are guests of the inn. Did ye want me to tell her she has a caller?”
“No, I must have been mistaken. I only saw the woman from the back. Thank you.”
Having what he needed, Rutledge left the establishment, fuming as he did. So, Katherine had rejected him, a peer of the realm, to marry a commoner? And a Frenchie no less! How dare she! Why, the wench had likely married the first man she encountered—if she was married at all, he decided. The little tramp might be only the man’s mistress.
Rutledge calmed himself, finding comfort in his luck at stumbling across her. Soon enough he would reclaim what was his. Yes, even if it required the use of his sword, the Frenchman would not have her for long.
* * *
Married to a traitor!
Kit threw her sketchpad on the bed and dropped her cloak over the chair, all the while hearing the same voice in her head she had heard as she fled the Dog Inn. She stood in the middle of their bedchamber, mind awhirl, thinking of first one scene then another, but she had only an incomplete patchwork of knowledge about Martin, the man she had wed, the man to whom she had given her body and her heart.
She reached for her sketchpad and flipped to the drawings of Martin she’d made during their trip to the Midlands. His handsome, intelligent face stared back at her from the page. Thick ebony hair with a lock fallen onto his forehead, raven-wing brows over eyes of darkest blue. Even though the drawing didn’t show the color of his eyes, she’d captured the heat of his gaze. And his mouth…those sensual, curving lips had kissed her most intimately. A man of great yet tender passion. A man of mystery.
Mystery. Was this the face of a traitor as well? Is that the reason they were here under an assumed name? And, if it was, what was she to do? Could she betray the man she loved? Could she live with his treachery if she did not?
The door to their bedchamber suddenly opened, and Kit whipped around to see the man of her many questions. Martin.
“Ah, Kit, you’re here.” He closed the distance between them for a kiss, momentarily confusing her. “Did you have a pleasant morning in the village, ma cherie? I have missed you.”
Kit was glad she had made some drawings of the church, though unfinished, and hastily turned to them. She had to keep a calm demeanor. He could not see the shock she carried within her at learning she was wed to a blackguard. “Y-yes…it was m-most interesting.” She handed him the sketch of the old medieval structure she’d worked on before taking her luncheon. “I visited St. Matthew’s.”
The charcoal made the stone edifice seem even more a cold monument to the past. Her heart thundered in her chest as she waited for his assessment, hoping he didn’t detect her rapid pulse. But his eyes were not on her, only the drawing.
“You’re a wonder with those pencils, Kit. I think these splendid. Was the church as magnificent once you were inside?”
“I thought so.” She reached for what she could say. “The colored-glass windows, the old tile-work and the carved wood of the nave are beautiful. The new curate paused in his work and gave me a tour.”
“That was most thoughtful of him,” Martin offered, setting down the sketchpad. “Did you have something to eat?”
“I did. A bowl of stew.” She would not mention that she’d eaten that stew at the Dog Inn or that she had witnessed his meeting with the other conspirators. She could not.
“I had only ale and could use something more in my belly,” he said, patting his stomach. “Oh, and I met the father of the child that John and I snared from the horns of that bull.”
“Where?”
“At one of the inns. I spent most of the morning with him and some other villagers, paying a call on a man John and I had to see. You know how men blather on when they sit around drinking.”
Kit knew exactly how some men spoke when they sat around drinking, having heard it for herself. The man, Edward Moore, the father of little Johnnie, must be one of the men Martin had been meeting with at the Dog Inn. She wondered if Moore’s wife knew the treachery her husband was involved in. Kit recalled that Mrs. Weightman had encouraged her son to attend the meeting, and Mrs. Onion was enthusiastic about a new government as well. So, yes, Mrs. Moore likely knew of her husband’s treasonous activities.
Another thought struck her. A fear, really. Was the whole village of Pentrid
ge swept up in such madness?
* * *
She feigned illness that night, too upset to make love to the man she had married, the man who had lied to her or at least failed to tell her the full truth. He was kind, which only made her dilemma more difficult. She could not find the courage to address the situation and fell asleep with her emotions in turmoil.
The next morning she woke to a knock on the door to their rooms. Martin stirred beside her and she felt his weight lift from the bed. Opening her eyes, she could see faint light coming through the nearby window.
Her husband quickly donned his breeches and boots and strode into the sitting room. Through the open door Kit heard, “’Tis John, Martin. I have more on that matter we discussed last night. The news is urgent.”
Martin opened the door to the corridor and John stepped inside. Before Martin spoke, he shut the door to the bedchamber, effectively closing Kit out. But she was curious to know what John considered urgent, so she lowered her feet to the floor and tiptoed to the door, listening intently to hear their exchange.
“I met a man at breakfast,” John said, “a printer and bookseller from Dewsbury named Willan. We got to talking about conditions in the Midlands. As he rambled on, he told me William Oliver came to his shop and tried to convince him to attend a meeting of unhappy workers. Oliver pleaded, saying his London friends were almost heartbroken that the people in the country were so quiet on such a great matter. Willan, who seems a sensible sort, thought the whole thing strange and did not take up with the man. I knew ye’d want to be aware, sir. Oliver is recruiting more men.”
“You did well, John. I think we’d best attend Oliver’s gatherings as the time for his planned uprising grows close. Did you learn where the next meeting will be held?”
“In a barn on the far end of town on the road to Belper. Ye have some time. ’Twill not happen till noon.”
