Strange Capers Page 16

  “Then I’ll drive and you can just sit and rest, lazybones. Come on, I’ll throw in a rock for you to sit on to make your drive really pleasant.”

  “I have so much to do at home. I should be packing...”

  He took my arm and inclined his head to mine. “Do you have that strange feeling that this has happened before? Last time you were determined not to let me get away. This time, the shoe is on the other foot. There’s no escape. I already told Jeremy to go on home alone. I’ve got you now, Miss Constance Pethel. There’s no evading my vile clutches.”

  I looked around for the jig and saw its rear wheels departing, with Jeremy in the driver’s seat. “So I see. Do you always get your own way, Aiglon?” I asked, deciding to give in with good grace.

  “No, I once had a mare with a mind of her own. She wouldn’t let me ride her for love or apples or sugar or any other bribe I could think of. And I once had a cousin who was determined to get her toe into Westleigh. I staved her off for ten years, but at last Rachel beat me, too. I think you know what trump card she held. As Mama is not at Westleigh, we required a chaperone. Such hot-blooded creatures as Miss Pethel and Aiglon aren’t to be trusted alone for a minute.”

  His manner was playful, and as this line of talk diverted a discussion of my visit with Cokewell, I went along with it. “You’ve met your match in Rachel. I noticed she even got the red silk out of you.”

  “She threatens to hang it in the guest room as it’s too gaudy for a gown. Or at least too gaudy for a gown for Lady Aiglon. Mama, I mean. But I was the manipulator that time. How was I to see you in the gold without bestowing a piece on Rachel as well, to temper the compliment? More pointed gestures of my intentions must wait awhile.”

  “What intentions are those, Aiglon?” I asked, but I knew where this intimate talk was headed.

  “Just what you think, my flower,” he answered with the warmest smile ever smiled. Then he tucked my arm under his and we walked off toward the White Hart.

  I couldn’t believe Aiglon or any man was capable of being at one time a blackhearted traitor and such a sweet lover. Thoughtful, gentle, generous—yet a consummate liar. He should have been an actor. His forte was convincing people he was what he was not, and I must be wary or he would convince me he was in love with me.

  When the curricle was delivered, we drove home at a sedate pace with Aiglon taking the ribbons. I could hardly think of a thing to say, but as Aiglon chattered so easily, my silence wasn’t much noticed.

  I passed the afternoon in packing my trunk. The trip to Westleigh made an excellent excuse for it, and it had to be done in any case as I planned to go home immediately.

  Rachel was in and out of my room a dozen times, ordering me to be sure to pack this and that and telling me what items were not necessary. I nodded and pretended to listen, but what I packed were the gowns I would require at home, not the ball gowns and riding habit she suggested.

  “Where are Aiglon and Retchling?” I asked once, and she told me Aiglon had gone out to do a bit of shooting and Retchling was in the library taming his pensées. I later looked in the library and saw that it was empty. The men were out arranging their night’s work, but I could rest easy. Cokewell would be keeping an eye on them. I could dispense with worry and concentrate on the gnawing regret that sat like a rock in my chest.

  The gentlemen sent word via Shiftwell that they would not be dining at home, which finally alerted Rachel to Retchling’s absence, but she was not interested in discussing it. I had no idea how deeply she was involved in their affaire, but there was one item that it would look suspicious not to discuss with her.

  “You realize this is the night the arms are supposed to arrive,” I said when we were alone. “That’s why Aiglon wanted to get us out of Thornbury.”

  “I am quite aware of that, Constance,” she said matter-of-factly. “They mean to ship them to France on Lord Ware’s old Nimble Nymph. I had the misery of a cruise on that derelict vessel three years ago, and he hasn’t fixed it up since. It scarcely took the weight of the few passengers aboard. There isn’t the least vestige of danger that it can carry hundreds of pounds of metal all the way across the Channel. It will sink, hopefully close enough to shore so that the guns can be brought up again. I trust Aiglon will be clever enough to evade capture. He is up to all the rigs, you must know,” she added with an air of satisfaction.

  This facile explanation was about as reassuring as a shot in the night. “But Mickey did some repairs on the boat,” I reminded her.

  “Pooh, a few bits of rotting lumber hammered over the larger craters. That scoundrel probably got a fortune from Aiglon for the ship, too.” I began to understand her discussion with Mickey at the chapel. He would be rich, whatever about the others, she had said, or something to that effect. She had gotten confirmation from Mickey then that the ship was to be used by Aiglon. And I had some assurance from Cokewell that he knew what was afoot, so there was nothing to do but sit on thorns, waiting for Aiglon to be caught in the act of treason.

  We went upstairs to finish our packing. I would leave tomorrow by coach. I read the timetable carefully by the light of my lamp, which formed a bright spot of flame on the glass. I marveled that it shone so large and red. For perhaps a full sixty seconds I sat like a moonling, half aware that the candle flame was taking over the whole window glass reflection, before it dawned on me that the light came from outside. Flames leaped into the air, and simultaneously a shrill, piercing scream came bellowing up the stairs.

  “Fire! The stacks is ablaze! Boney’s landed and we’ll all be kilt in our beds.” It was Meg, and she was hammering at Rachel’s door.

  I ran to the window and stared into the night. Certainly the blaze was far enough away to be one of the stacks lit on the coast to alert us of Bonaparte’s arrival. It had finally happened, and all I could do was stand with my heart in my throat looking at the window. I was frozen like a stone statue, unable to move a muscle. The murdering, alien horde was probably even now swarming over the beach, pistols cocked, seeking victims. In a flash I saw my body, torn apart and cast aside, while the Frenchies battened themselves at Thornbury. And the only man in the house to rise to our defense was an ancient humpbacked servant who could scarcely walk.

  I reckoned without the indomitable Rachel. What was a Bonaparte or a French army to her? Just a new bunch of opponents to get the better of. As I defrosted and sheer, blind panic seized me, Rachel came striding into the room like a general in charge of a regiment.

  “Now, then, Constance, we require a little organization here. Meg, shut up, you blubbering idiot! Go to the kitchen and pack up any handy food. Bread, meat, cheese—and have Willard bring the good claret up from the cellar. Put everything in the carriage and have Jeremy harness up the team. In fact, take Aiglon’s carriage and team if he hasn’t taken them himself.”

  “Oh, miss!” Meg gasped, fanning her face with her apron tails.

  “Run along, Meg. Do exactly as I say. The good claret, mind. Constance, there’s no time to do anything but grab your pearls and sapphire chips and bolt for it.”

  “Where can we hide?” I asked, staring, in my stupor, at the bed.

  “Hide? Rubbish, there’s no point in hiding. They’ll batten a troop here at Thornbury, I should think. What we must do is make for Westleigh at all speed. Hurry along, and we’ll meet at the carriage. My jewelry box and my money...” she muttered, striding from my room. I had a hazy memory of something in her hands. It looked like a book. Yes, the book of Folkestone anecdotes was what she had first picked up to rescue. Even before her jewelry box and her money.

  I stuffed my pearls and sapphire necklace in my pocket and looked around the room. The other object I chose to run for my life with was a chipped statue of Venus that rested on my dresser. I never could stand the sight of it, and it was only made of cheap plaster, which gives you some idea of my state. I ran downstairs, leaving my reticule containing four pounds and two shillings on a chair in my room, and carried off a wo
rthless, broken statue.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  “That no-good Jeremy Chubb ain’t in the stable!” I heard Meg scream as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Of course he is. He’s sleeping. Rouse him up, Meg, and be quick about it, or we’ll all be drawn and quartered,” Rachel said impatiently.

  “No, he isn’t, Rachel. He’s joined the militia. He’d have to run to join the regiment at the first sight of the fire,” I said.

  “Bother. Then you’ll have to harness up the carriage yourself, Constance,” Rachel said. “I must stay here and make sure everything we need gets packed. You might as well take a load of food out with you.”

  “But I don’t know how to harness up a carriage! I’ve never done it in my life! Call some of Aiglon’s servants.”

  “They’re not here,” she announced.

  “Where are they?”

  “Aiglon gave them the night off. You’ll have to do it, Constance. It can’t be that difficult. You put the small bits of harness about their heads and leave the reins free for driving.”

  With these scanty directions, I went trembling in the dark to the stables. There was a feverish something in the very air that night. The horses sensed it and scuffled in their loose boxes, while I tried to figure out which harness was for which horse. Between the trembling of my fingers, the restiveness of the team, plain ignorance on my part, and the poor light, it took me an age to get the team harnessed, and it was all done wrong. Once I had some pieces of metal and leather more or less attached to them and the carriage, I was faced with the job of trying to get the whole contraption out of the stable. While I worked, Meg and Willard came huffing and puffing to put parcels in the carriage. Food and blankets, wine and the box of silver, Rachel’s fur-lined cape, Rachel’s jewelry box, Rachel’s own china, and anything else belonging to her that wasn’t too heavy to move.

  When it was all packed, there was only room for one in the carriage, and you may be pretty sure who that one was. Between us, we managed to get poor old Willard hoisted into the driver’s seat. Meg and myself had to walk until Meg took the notion of climbing up on the postilion’s box.

  “Constance, take one of Aiglon’s mounts. He’ll be thankful to you for saving it,” Rachel hollered from the coach window.

  “They’re all gone.”

  “Bother, the servants must be riding them. And the curricle gone as well, is it?”

  “There’s only our own horses.”

  “Well, there you are, hook them up to the jig, and we’ll save it as well.” On this command, the carriage rattled out of the yard and I was left alone. With the belief that Boney headed toward me even now, I didn’t take time to bother with the jig but threw a blanket over the old mare and rode her bareback after the carriage, for I didn’t want to lose contact with it.

  It was just at the moment we hit the road through the park that the church bells began their dolorous toll, informing the countryside that the awful moment had come. A practice ringing had been done in church one Sunday to teach the parishioners what to listen for. It struck my ear with the force of my own death knell. It obviously had the same effect on Willard, for he whipped the nags to a gallop that soon left me yards behind, hanging on to Dobbin for dear life, while the carriage pulled on ahead of me.

  I assumed Rachel would head for Folkestone to meet up with as many people as possible. We hadn’t taken the time to light the carriage lights, and by the time I reached the main road, the carriage was long gone, but I turned toward Folkestone and made as much haste as I could.

  The highway was full of travelers of all degree. Many of them were on foot, some on horseback, some in carts and wagons; all carried more than was convenient, but all they carried was considered essential. One poor woman had a baby at her breast and another by the hand, with the mother and toddler both bawling as loudly as they could.

  I shot past them, but my conscience wouldn’t let me forget the pathetic sight. I was young, able-bodied, and had no helpless companions. I turned around and went back to the woman.

  “Here, you need this more than I do,” I said, and held the baby while she clambered aboard, then I handed the baby up to her.

  There was another Good Samaritan on the road. An elderly man suggested that the horse could take the toddler’s weight as well. He would accompany the group to make sure the boy didn’t fall off. They set such a laggardly pace that I soon walked on ahead of them. I wasn’t actually with anyone, but groups of people were all around, ahead of and behind me. You would have thought they’d be talking, but it was a strangely silent caravan that wended its way to Folkestone. Perhaps they were all listening for the sound of marching soldiers.

  I know we all cast our eyes out to sea when the turns in the road allowed us a sight of it. The moon shone silver on the calm waters. A very small stretch of shore was visible to us at any one time, and we had at least the reassurance of seeing that no French flat-bottomed boats were harbored directly below us. Every twist and bend of the road brought a new fear that they would come into sight. Our steps would speed up as we approached these corners, then slow down when we saw the empty shingle beach where the wet pebbles gleamed in the cold moonlight.

  It was hard to walk in slippers designed for the saloon. I felt every stone and bump through the thin leather soles, and from time to time pebbles found their way inside my slippers to slow me down as well. After a few miles of travel, I had to stop to remove the stones from my slippers and to rest my legs. I went off to the side of the road and sat on a milestone. A blister had formed on my left heel, and I tried wadding my handkerchief up to use as protection. Strange how such a trivial exigency could exert itself above the much deeper terror of the invasion.

  I drew a deep sigh and looked up at the hilltops to see that a series of stacks were ablaze now. The first fierce flames of the furze had long since burned out, and it was the more sluggish turf that burned on. The moving figures of the men at the fires looked like black shadows. They didn’t even have guns with which to defend themselves and the helpless citizens. I remembered that this was the night the guns were to have been delivered and felt a moment’s satisfaction that Aiglon’s plans had gone awry. But it was a short-lived satisfaction. He wouldn’t be shipping the guns to France because the French were here, around one of the dark bends in the road, waiting to pounce.

  When I looked at the road, I realized that the crowd had passed me by. They were getting away from me, and I was on thorns to attach myself to whatever safety their numbers conferred. I tied my slipper and braced myself to rejoin the caravan. I took one step, then stopped. What was that noise? A tangle of bush grew at the side of the road, and from within its invisible depths issued a rustle. A Frenchie! They had spread out from their landing spot and were creeping about the countryside to murder us one by one. I froze, praying that he hadn’t seen me. There was another rustle, and I took to my heels. Not down the road—I’d have to run right past him to do that. No, I ran back, and when there was a break in the bush, I scampered up the hill toward the closest rick. At least there would be one or two Englishmen there to help protect me.

  I looked over my shoulder once as I ran, but saw nothing. I didn’t tempt fate by stopping or by returning to the road. I scrambled up that hill like a mountain goat, digging into the earth with my fingers to keep my footing, for it was very steep. A sharp pain grew in my chest, but I forged on, clinging to roots and bushes and outcrops of rocks till I crested the hill.

  When I reached the top, I realized that I had run to the largest rick. It was just outside of Folkestone, and it was the one that was to be lit to pass the signal down the coast. The Leas and the Church of St. Mary and St. Eanswith were just a few hundred yards beyond it. The militia would be gathered there, and I was as safe as anyone could be at such a time.

  At any rate, I could see that the man stoking the fire was an English farmer in fustian and a battered cap. I didn’t stop but ran on, my feet dragging now, to the chur
ch. There stood Captain Cokewell with his ragtag and bobtail troop of militiamen formed into a marching group, armed with pikes and shovels and any old stick they could grab hold of. The townspeople hovered in a frightened half circle around their defenders. I asked the woman beside me what the militia was going to do, and she told me they had sent out runners and were waiting to hear in which direction they should march.

  “Two of the runners have come back already, and it’s beginning to seem that it was all a false alarm,” she told me hopefully.

  “How could such a thing happen?” I asked, yet I, too, felt a surge of hope that she was right.

  “There’s whispering it was done as a prank by some young lads. They ought to be whipped if that’s what it is,” she said sternly.

  “It’s hard to believe anyone would do such a thing!”

  “It was none of our local boys, and that’s for certain,” she told me, emphasizing this with a nod of her head. “But there’s been a new young bunch of fellows from London hanging about the town lately. I expect that’s their idea of a romp, to go scaring the daylights out of honest women and children. That’s some fine example his lordship is setting, is all I have to say!”

  “His lordship?” I asked, but I already had a good idea of what she’d reply.

  “Aye, young Aiglon and his crew. I knew they were up to no good hanging about with Dougherty and that French madame of his. That’s who’s behind this fracas, see if it isn’t. And never a step will be taken to chastise them, either,” she added angrily.

  My own first reaction was of rightful indignation like the woman I was talking to. It took a minute or more before the other possibility occurred to me. Aiglon had had the fires lit, all right, but it wasn’t just a harmless prank. He had done it for a purpose. It was a distraction to keep the militia busy while he absconded with the guns!

  I flew forward and grabbed Captain Cokewell’s arm before timidity could prevent me, for it was hard to run out into the field in front of the assembled group and make a spectacle of myself.