Barbara Metzger (10 page)

Miss Lockharte needed her fifty pounds. With that much blunt she could afford a clean room nearby while she regrouped. Then she could travel to London and find a decent position if her uncle would not take her back. With fifty pounds she could even buy passage to the Colonies, where there were more opportunities.

That's what she would do, Rosellen thought; she'd go to America and make a fresh start. Surely someone in that vast land needed a governess or a schoolteacher or a fair hand. Of course there were savages there, but who could be more barbaric than the Merrihew siblings? She'd do it, Rosellen decided, as soon as she got back her fifty pounds.

First she had to find Fanny. Fanny could swear to the magistrate that there really had been a messenger and money. The maid could tell the authorities where the pouch had come from, and perhaps where it had gone. Rosellen didn't think the gift was from her uncle Townsend, for he was too parsimonious. He wouldn't have sent so much blunt, he wouldn't have sent a carriage, and he wouldn't have his footmen wearing expensive livery and powder-tax wigs.

Rosellen needed Fanny to remember if there had been a crest on the door or a message. At least the maid could tell her who else had received letters, for the whole of the last fortnight was a foggy blur in Rosellen's mind. She did have a niggling suspicion in the haze of her memory that Fanny couldn't read, but she'd face that later. First she had to find the girl.

When one of the ostlers passed her bench, she asked where she might find the local constable. She would lay the charges with him, she decided, and let him locate Fanny for her. The stableboy gave her the directions and said she might leave her belongings on the bench, for Rosellen didn't think she had the strength to carry a tune, much less a cherrywood lap desk.

As she was making her slow, unsteady way across the innyard, Rosellen could hear some kind of commotion, but it had nothing to do with her, so she kept going, picking her path through the stableyard litter. Then, just as she was about to reach the high street and its clean sidewalks, she heard the racket and rumble of a fast-moving vehicle, the shouts and shrieks of frantic bystanders. She looked back to see a pair of enormous dray horses pulling a wagon of enormous ale kegs enormously close to her. What fool was driving so recklessly? she wondered, then saw that no one was. The horses were runaways, frightened by the screaming, scurrying crowds.

Rosellen had nowhere to go and couldn't get there on her wobbly legs. She tried to back up, closer to the building, but her foot slipped on a pile of manure. She fell to the ground, sure she had been saved from the influenza only to succumb to a stampede.

"Is she dead?” she heard someone ask. This time Rosellen decided she'd wait for someone to tell her.

"No, the horses missed her,” another voice responded, “and the wagon wheels went to either side of the chit. Damnedest thing I ever seen. And what set them horses off like that is a plumb mystery, too."

"Then why ain't she moving?"

Rosellen could feel rough hands on her arms and legs, probing for damages. At her weak protest, she was instantly hauled to her feet, but she couldn't stand for the life of her and collapsed back to the dirt.

A worried voice asked, “What'll we do, boss, take her inside the inn?"

"The missus has gone off to visit her sister. There's no female to tend to her. She's one of the teachers from that girls’ school, though. I seen Jake bring her. We'll take her back and let them tend to her there."

This time they carried her up to the attic room. Battered and bruised, Rosellen didn't have enough energy to groan. If she could have moved, she would have changed out of her befouled gown. Now she smelled the way she felt. At least there was some water by the bedside and a cup, although she didn't want to think of how long either had been there. She didn't want to think at all, so she sipped the water, then let her mind drift into the by-now familiar gray haze. Life had definitely been easier when she was dead.

"You fool, now she's back!” Miss Merrihew was shouting, seemingly from a distance. “We could have been rid of her once and for all."

Rosellen recognized Mr. Merrihew's querulous accent. “Don't blame that on me. My hands are clean."

They wouldn't be for long if he stayed in this room, Rosellen thought. The attic chamber was so small, a speck of dirt covered half the floor. Heaven knew what she'd trailed in from the stableyard. Rosellen decided to feign a coma—which wasn't going to take any great acting—rather than engage in another pointless confrontation with this evil pair. Besides, she might learn something to her benefit. Heaven knew she needed every advantage she could glean.

Mr. Merrihew was going on. “I didn't do anything to the chit this morning. And I wasn't the one who took her in again this afternoon."

"What did you expect me to do with the men from the livery stable showing up at the same time that Lord and Lady Manley were delivering their brat back at school? The jackanapes were standing there with the twit propped up between them, grinning like they'd found my missing pot of gold. Waiting for a reward, more likely. Hah! Hell will freeze over first."

"Couldn't you have said she was on her way somewhere?"

"Look at her, you gudgeon. The only place she is headed to is the midden heap. Besides, turning the gel away in front of the Manleys would have hurt the academy's reputation as badly as anything the fool could say. We are supposed to be teaching the Golden Rule, recall? You ought to, for it's the only class you teach, Jonas. Can't you remember to sound like a vicar occasionally? You didn't have to mumble that bit about a bad penny right where Lord Manley could hear. Besides, did you listen to those men say she was asking about the constable? That's all we need, with the students returning, an officer of the law asking awkward questions."

"So what will you do now?"

"What will
we
do, don't you mean? I'll have to think about it. For now I intend to leave her right here, so the Manley chit can't write to Papa with any foolish notions. The girls liked the wench; they might take it amiss if we toss the baggage out with the trash. But who knows what might happen to poor Miss Lockharte in her weakened condition?"

"If we're lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it.” Miss Merrihew pried Rosellen's clenched fingers open and extracted the silver crown piece. “This ought to cover my expenses until we can figure out some other way of getting rid of the nuisance without stirring up a bumblebroth."

Rosellen listened to their footsteps recede on the bare floor, then the narrow stairs. She opened her eyes and scowled after the unholy pair. Now she was a nuisance? Like a fly one took a swatter to? She doubted if they'd be back this day, so she could rest for a bit, but only a bit. One thing was certain: She'd die for real if she stayed there in the attic with no food and no fire. Rosellen did
not
want to expire smelling of the stables. That truly would have added insult to injury. She'd had enough of both.

When she woke up again, her mind was not so fuddled; thus, she felt it was time to make a plan. Considering she had absolutely no resources, her options were remarkably simple. She could stay there and starve or she could leave—and starve. Rosellen was hungry, which she took to be a good sign. So she decided to leave via the kitchens and fetch herself some bread and cheese. Lud knew she'd paid for them, with her fifty pounds and five shillings. Also, someone in the kitchens might know Fanny's whereabouts. She'd have to avoid Cook and the Merrihews, of course, and find some form of conveyance back to Brighton. Since the local officer of the law was Lord Vance, he of the midnight trysts with Miss Merrihew, Rosellen knew she had to go farther afield to present her case.

Miss Lockharte congratulated herself on the excellence of her scheme. Now all she had to do was execute it, which she admitted was a poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Besides, considering that she couldn't raise her head off the pillow, this was easier said than done. She rolled over until her feet were off the bed. That was a start.

With agonizing slowness, Rosellen made the rest of her aching body follow. She could almost hear her joints creak their protest, saying they were not about to hold her up, not without a lot of encouragement. So, while she was on her knees on the dirty floor, she said a prayer.

"Dear Lord"—she began the way her father had taught her, expressing gratitude for her blessings—"thank you for saving me from the epidemic and the wild horses. I wouldn't want your efforts on my behalf to go for naught, so if you could just see your way clear to lending a bit more assistance, I would greatly appreciate it. If you'll help me down the stairs, I can take it from there, I think."

Clinging to the bedpost, Rosellen levered herself to a standing position. This time her knees did cooperate enough to keep her upright, if she hung on to something. Luckily, the room was so small that she could reach from the bed to the wall to the door frame to the bannister. One step down, two. Her head was spinning again, but she could do it. She had to do it Three steps ... four. How many of the blasted things were there?

Too many. She had to rest at the landing, gasping for air, clutching the railing as if it were a lifeline. But she'd made it out of the attic story. Now the steps were wider and deeper, with carpeting. She wouldn't have to hold on so tightly, thank goodness, for her cold fingers were growing numb.

Rosellen started counting again at the next set of stairs, this time out loud. So she never heard the footsteps behind her or the
whoosh
of air as hands reached out and gave her back a forceful shove. There were three more flights of stairs, with fourteen steps each, and Rosellen hit each and every one of them before landing in a heap at the bottom.

So God did answer prayers, Rosellen thought, even if His response wasn't quite what she'd had in mind. Now she prayed that the ominous crack she'd heard was the bannister, not her wrist. While she was at it, before losing consciousness, Rosellen prayed for help, for she wasn't getting any farther without divine intervention—or someone's.

Help was on the way, a circuitous, slow way to be sure, but it was on the way.

The Heatherstone brothers went on a detour at Woking, where they heard about an illegal prizefight being held behind an inn's stable. Timothy backed the winner; Thomas backed one of the tavern wenches into an empty stall. A fair was on in Guildford, so they had to stay to see the two-headed calf, the sword swallower, and the rope climber. Opportunities like that didn't come every day. With a pocketful of coins, Thomas won a handful of pinchbeck jewelry at the games. With a slightly larger purse, Timothy won the temporary affections of the tattooed lady. An opportunity like that didn't come every day either.

There was to be a cockfight at Horsham that night, so the brothers stayed on. Miss Lockharte must be dead by now, so another day or two couldn't make any difference to her. Neither of the twins was feeling hexed or haunted by her wandering wraith, so what was the rush to hear bad news? The longer they waited to sign up, the better the chance of old Boney being defeated without their assistance, which suited them to a cow's thumb.

The following morning, waking in a cow's manger, heads pounding and pockets considerably lighter, the twins decided that such delays did not suit Miss Lockharte's spirit. If the female was indeed starting to take her revenge, they'd better hurry.

So they raced as if the devil were on their heels, or a dishonored woman. At Horsham, the careening curricles took a narrow bridge. The wheels locked and Tim went flying. Tom brought his horses under control, then went back to untangle his brother's cattle. Lastly, he fished his twin out of the water. He couldn't save Tim's hat, which was floating downstream at a merry pace. One of Tom's horses was lamed, and Tim's curricle was damaged. They'd have to head slowly for Cuckfield, where someone could make repairs and where Tim could buy a new hat.

Lord Haverhill saw no reason to hurry. If his niece was dead, she was dead. No one else was going to pay to put her in the ground, so she'd keep until he got to that wretched school. And if she wasn't dead, there was nothing he could do to nurse a sick female.

Besides, the baron meant to enjoy this vacation from his high-strung daughter and low-spirited spouse. His coach was well sprung, well protected by outriders, and well stocked from the Haverhill pantry. The coachman knew to avoid bumps and high speeds, for the baron hated to be jostled around like a cricket in a cage. The driver also knew to be on the lookout for inns that catered to the quality, for the baron did love his food and drink.

They stopped outside Reigate at noontime, at the Quiet Woman. What could be more fortuitous? The meal was superb, the wines obviously smuggled. Afterward, Baron Haverhill needed a nap. He might as well stay on at the delightful place for dinner, which the innkeep promised would surpass luncheon. The serving wench was surpassing lovely, too. With tasty morsels all around, Rosellen's uncle decided to stay the night rather than face the irksome duty of arranging a funeral.

Viscount Stanford was riding. He didn't like being confined for hours, no matter how comfortable his carriage. He didn't enjoy riding through sleet and rain either, so the luxurious crested coach was following at a more leisurely pace in case the weather turned inclement.

He, too, intended to enjoy this freedom from the obligations that were burdening him in Town. Fine horseflesh beneath him, clear skies above, Wynn's family and the War Office were miles away. Unfortunately, a man could not outride his thoughts.

Was he truly an uncaring beast? Did he really show callous disdain for those beneath him? Wynn took stock. His servants were the highest paid in London, with the least work, there were so many of them. His tenant farmers lived better than many lords. His cottagers had schools and doctors and new roofs whenever they needed. Even his mines were the safest in England, with no children employed. He did have his sister's best interests to heart, no matter what she thought, and he took the rest of his responsibilities equally seriously, from serving in Parliament to sending donations to orphanages.