by Regan Walker
“Have ye finished my picture, Mrs. Donet?” he asked, flashing his blue eyes at her.
“I have. Would you like to see?” She flipped through her sketchbook until she came to one of the earliest sketches she’d completed since coming to Pentridge and showed him.
He studied it for a moment then said, “’Tis a nice picture. Better than my true face, I think.”
“Not to me,” she replied. “I’ve made one for your mother, too. You’re a handsome fellow, George. Have you never noticed the attention village girls pay you, or does it take a woman to see that?”
A red blush crept up his face, and he dropped his gaze to his shoes. Well…I suppose I have noticed a few.”
Kit pondered the man before her. He still seemed more like a younger brother to her, even though his ruddy complexion and wavy blond hair would never have been seen in her family. Perhaps his youthful demeanor came from living in the country where life was simpler. His eyes did not speak of experience. In London, she had seen so much at such an early age she felt a decade older.
“There, you see? Even you have observed the girls of Pentridge watching you from beneath their lashes. When it comes to choosing a wife, you will have your pick.”
“Do you think so, ma’am?” he asked.
“I do.” And when she smiled up at him, he returned the expression and sauntered off with a lighter step, leaving Kit pleased she could bring him some joy. It saddened her to think that the fair-haired young man was involved with the men planning an uprising, even at his mother’s insistence, and she worried for him.
A moment later two little girls rushed by at play, teasing each other. Kit hurriedly flipped her sketchbook to a new page to capture them. One had blonde curls and the other a more common brown. Though very different in appearance, they reminded her of two other girls the same age a long time before. Kit remembered again the day that she had rescued Anne’s doll from the bullies; they had played together just like these two. Pausing in her drawing, she realized not for the first time that she would never again hear Anne’s sweet voice, never again have the chance to comfort her. Kit had said a brief good-bye, and that was the last memory she would have of the sister she loved who called herself the brown mouse.
* * *
That evening, after dinner, Kit and Martin wished John a good night and entered their rooms. Martin settled into a chair in the sitting room, while Kit went to the bedchamber.
“What’s this sketch?” Martin called.
Kit glanced over her shoulder to see her husband studying her sketchbook and remembered the drawing she’d left open when she’d returned that afternoon. “Two village girls I was watching play near the inn.” She put on her blue wrapper, tying it in front of her waist and went to retrieve the book, worried he’d see more.
“There is something about this drawing,” Martin continued. “So much emotion between the two girls.”
“Perhaps it’s because they reminded me of my sister and me,” Kit said, taking it from his hand.
He must have heard the quaver in her voice, for he rose and followed her into their bedchamber where she took a seat and began brushing her hair. Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around her. “What’s wrong, Kitten?”
“There are times, like today,” she explained, setting the brush down, “when the loss of Anne overwhelms me. I’m reminded…” She turned to the side as her voice caught and took a deep breath before continuing. “I will see something, like a pale pink ribbon she would have loved, and I want to buy it for her. But then I remember she is gone and I’ll never again share such a gift with her.” She turned to find his indigo eyes filled with sympathy. “I’ll never see her again, Martin. Not in this life.”
“I know, Kitten,” he said, pulling her up from the bench and drawing her against him. “I know.”
He reached his hand to her face and wiped away the tears she could feel spilling down her cheek. She supposed he did know, for he too was living with the loss of someone he loved.
“Come,” he said. “Let me help you forget the sadness.”
Willingly she let him undress her and, having doffed his clothes, he gently pulled her to the bed. He kissed away her tears and loved her with his gentle hands just as he had that first night they came together. The scent of him and the heat of his body surrounded her, and she pulled him closer. He kissed her deeply as she delighted in the rough hair on his chest teasing her breasts.
When his lips trailed kisses down her throat to her breasts, she responded. His warm flesh pressed against her caused the tension to quickly build, and her woman’s center grew wet and eager for him. His erection pressed into her mound; then his body slid down hers as he kissed her stomach, her belly, and finally the sensitive flesh of that responsive bud where he lingered.
“Oh, Martin,” she sighed as she pulled him back up to her.
He was so perfectly formed; she slid her hands over his back and rubbed her face against the rippling muscles of his chest. “You smell good, Martin. An unusual spicy scent, all earthy man.”
He chuckled. “Enough of that. I want you.”
She reveled in his weight upon her and opened to him. With one thrust, he was lodged deep within her. She raised her hips and moved with him, the friction of his slow slide in and out of her sheath bringing her quickly to the fever pitch of their lovemaking. And when release came for both of them, the echoes of her spasms held him deep within her.
She clung to him, cradled in his arms, and Kit let out a sigh of contentment. Her husband stroked her arm, tender in his touch, and she was reminded that she had made a wise decision in marrying him. No matter the questions that still remained, she would trust him.
“I love you, Martin,” she said.
“Ah, Kitten, you’ve made me a happy man. I’ll never grow tired of hearing those words. I love you, too.”
“I wanted to tell you for a long time, but I was afraid. I didn’t know if I could trust you,” she whispered in a revelation.
“And you do now?” Martin whispered back, softly kissing her temple.
“Yes,” she admitted, shivering.
“You and I are very much alike, you know.”
“How is that?” she asked, nestling deeper against his body.
“We both want to control our lives. It’s why you wouldn’t have married me when I asked, not if you’d had the baron’s money then…and it is why I gave up the sea and left my father’s ships. You’re brave, independent and curious, and you care for others, like your sister Anne and even the people of this village. You make me care, too, Kit. It’s because of you I have more sympathy for the plight of these people of Pentridge.”
She kissed him then, a soft thank-you for who he was: her knight. There had never been anyone like him in her life. Not her father, who loved her but failed to understand his younger daughter, nor Anne, who admired her strength but did not share it. Martin understood her and loved who she was. He encouraged her drawing and gave her time many husbands would have denied. He’d met her need for small comforts on their trip north. He sent her a bath and tea even when he was angry. And, too, there was that first night at Willow House. In some mysterious way she could not explain he’d understood what she’d needed.
She wanted to be the wife who met his needs. “I don’t care about having control anymore, Martin. I care about sharing a life with you. Please don’t do anything that would jeopardize that life.”
Chapter 20
Kit stretched and yawned, the soreness in her body reminding her of the previous night. She had known Martin was a wonderful lover, known he could be tender and gentle, but this time he had been so much more. He’d been voracious, murmuring French words of love as he took her again during the night, like a man long without food finding himself at a banquet. She had never felt more desirable.
As she lay next to him, she thought about how intimately they shared their bodies and how eloquently he spoke of his love while sharing nothing of his work. Perhaps that would so
on change.
“Martin, how much longer will we be here?”
“Ah, Kitten.” He gave her a squeeze. “I see you grow tired of this village life. I do not blame you. So do I. It won’t be much longer that you’ll have to endure this slow pace.”
“It is not the pace I mind. I rather enjoy the calm of village life. But it’s not our life, is it? I trust we have a future that is not here in the Midlands.”
“We certainly do. And I am anxious for it to begin, to sweep you away on a wedding trip we’ve yet to take. Trust me, it won’t be long now. But stay close to the inn and the village.”
Always there was that caution. He worried about something that was coming, a dark cloud on the horizon. The uprising, she supposed. Again, for the hundredth time, she wondered how involved he was, and whether the disgruntled workers would truly march on London. At times it all seemed like a dream. The Midlands were so beautiful, and the idea of any kind of revolution in England seemed impossible.
On the eighth of June they went to church at the ancient St. Matthew’s. In a bizarre turn of the weather it had snowed the day before, and, though much had melted, white patches remained in shadows under the trees. Stepping out of the church at the end of the service with Martin at her side, Kit gathered her cloak more tightly around her, and stopped to talk to Lydia Moore, the cobbler’s wife, wondering aloud how the weather would affect the local wheat crop. Only yesterday the tender green stalks had been blowing in the breeze.
Martin excused himself, saying he and John needed to speak to the curate. Kit half listened to Mrs. Moore speak of how well her young son Johnnie was doing, half watched Martin and John walk to where Mr. Wolstenholme stood bidding his parishioners good-day. The three men stepped aside and huddled together to talk. Kit wondered if the curate was involved in the planned insurrection. His views seemed more those of a revolutionary than a man of the cloth, but if he was involved it was surely because he cared about the people and wanted justice for them. What a strange place Pentridge was.
Later that day, after they’d shared a meal, Martin excused himself again to leave her alone in their rooms. Kit could sense something was afoot and was curious to know what it was.She allowed some time to pass then started downstairs. Nanny Weightman was welcoming a score of men through the front door, urging them quickly into the back room. A few allowed their gazes to drift to where Kit stood on the stairs, but none paused as they strode to their destination. From the looks of them, they were from the ironworks, large muscular laborers with rugged features dressed simply in brown woolens as she’d observed the day she and Martin rode to the factory.
As Kit descended to the base of the stairs, the one they called the Nottingham Captain walked through the door. Her drawing of him was nearly done, and she could see it was a good likeness. It depicted the man’s thin face, thick curly hair and intense dark eyes, the scraggly dark beard and mustache that cried for a trim. His shoulders were slight but he stood erect.
Only when he joined the others assembling in the back room did Kit approach the proprietress. “Mrs. Weightman, may I ask, do you know that man who just passed by?”
“Why, yes, that’d be Mr. Brandreth, m’dear. He once destroyed those infernal textile machines, but he’s taken on a greater role now for the good of the cause. He’s arrived in Pentridge for some final planning with the men of the village, including me own sons. Did ye know me boys are to have positions in the new provisionary government? And me brother Thomas has been participating in the meetings in Nottingham. He believes, as I do, ’tis time the workers have their say.”
Kit could hardly believe the pride shining in the woman’s eyes as she spoke of her sons and family rebelling against the Crown. “I see,” she said, still shocked by the possibility the townsfolk could endorse the man known as the Nottingham Captain and think a revolution likely to succeed, even encouraging their sons to join up. Kit would have considered persuading her to see reason, but the conviction in Mrs. Weightman’s voice did not invite debate.
“Why, yer own husband Mr. Donet be with them!”
“Yes…yes, of course.” Kit shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that, but she was. She decided to pretend Martin participated with her knowledge, certain it was the only reason the woman was sharing information so freely.
Nanny Weightman turned to greet more men entering the inn, and Kit wandered toward the back listening for voices. She paused near the doorway, hearing the large room crowded with men, and slipped along the back wall to sit on a keg behind a stack of crates. Through an opening she saw Jeremiah Brandreth at the front of the crowd.
Gesturing to the man on his right Brandreth announced, “The rising is nearly here. Meet my good friend from South Wingfield, Isaac Ludlam. He lost his farm to bad times and has been using his stonecutting skills to develop weapons. Thanks be to God he escaped the scrape with General Byng!”
Ludlam rose from his chair. Tall and powerfully built, the man had hair the same tan color of the stones of the Pentridge inns. “I’ve some pikes stored at my quarry on the way to South Wingfield not two miles away. They’ll arm some of us at least. My friend William Turner here”—he gestured to a man next to him—“has more.”
The thin and wiry Turner joined his friend at the front of the crowd. “I can get us weapons, but they be of little use if’n we don’t first get rid of the magistrate, Colonel Hatton. He’s the one who had those boys arrested that even now rot in gaol, waiting to be hung for the hayfield burning. I’ve a plan to lure Hatton out of his house by setting fire to some straw on his doorstep, and then we can shoot him as he comes to investigate. ’Twill be easy.”
The men seemed to consider Turner’s idea, some shaking their heads, some nodding. Kit was horrified. The man openly urged murder! She remembered what the curate had told her of the four young men whose bodies he expected would soon be buried in the church graveyard, and she regretted that their lives might be forfeit, but revenge such as this was appalling. She was relieved when, after some discussion, most of the men dismissed the idea of killing the magistrate.
“I be John Onion”—a man rose from the barrel upon which he rested—“and I speak fer the Butterley Ironworkers here. Six of our men were just sacked because they are members of the Hampden Club led by our friend Thomas. They argued for reform of Parliament and the vote for all men, but the factory manager claimed they were rebels and troublemakers and threw them out. I say they are men we should follow!”
Listening, Kit wondered if that was the reason Martin had taken her riding near the ironworks. Somehow she felt certain their ride and the involvement of the men from the factory were two threads in the same twist. Why else would Martin want to see the ironworks? Did he plan to return with these men?
“Aye, you’re right, John,” called Brandreth. “You mention my friend Thomas Bacon. I met with him in Nottingham just a day ago. He thinks Pentridge should be our base of operation for the rising. I agree. Great events will shortly come to pass, and the countryside is only waiting for the men of Pentridge to join.”
“We’re with ye!” a man shouted from the back of the room. Raised voices began a chorus of agreement.
Brandreth calmed the men with raised arms. “It makes sense to me we begin here. Pentridge is near the ironworks, where John Onion has assured me hundreds will rise with us.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” said Onion. “Some I know were none too happy about the sacking. Those were men with families to feed. ’Tis only right that the iron bars lying about the factory should be given to us as weapons when we come a-calling.” The big man gave Brandreth a knowing smile, as if they shared some secret. Kit decided the ironworks must be the key to their success.
The Nottingham Captain drew a large map from the floor behind him and set it on a crate in the middle of the room, and the crowd drew close, straining to see. It looked to Kit like there were more than thirty of them gathered around.
“Oliver tells me the whole country is ready to rise. This is t
he route we’ll take to join the others in Nottingham. We’ll travel the few miles south from Pentridge to Ripley and then east the fourteen miles to Nottingham. And from there to London! Along the way we shall gather more men and weapons.” Brandreth picked up a stack of circulars and began to pass them around. “I’ve written some verses to inspire ye,” he said, then he began to recite:
Every man his skill must try,
He must turn out and not deny;
No bloody soldier must he dread,
He must turn out and fight for bread.
The time is come, you plainly see,
The government opposed must be!
The room was quiet for a few seconds and then erupted with shouts of, “The time has come! The time has come!”
Kit watched in horror. Could they not see what idiocy this was? Soldiers could kill them all! She wanted to cry out their folly but knew they’d never listen to a woman, and certainly not a Frenchman’s wife.
Brandreth raised his hand to silence the men and began once more to speak. “Tomorrow night we’ll gather at Hunt’s barn. From there we’ll march together to Nottingham, where my own men await. Clouds of men from the north will come alongside, and we’ll sweep all before us!”
“What will happen at Nottingham, Captain?” shouted a man from the back of the room, not far from where Kit was hidden.
“There’ll be ale and beef for every man, and a hundred guineas apiece. Over sixteen thousand men will rise there to march with us,” Brandreth promised with obvious confidence. “Oliver has assured me that, by the time we reach Nottingham, London will have fallen into the hands of the new government he is organizing. I’m dispatching young George Weightman here,” he added, gazing at the young man of whom Kit had become so fond, “to check on the men at Nottingham and return with a report for us tomorrow.”
