The problem was that after two days, Daphne understood too well what Margaret had meant about there being anger in the air.
One could sense it. Smell it. It marked the faces of men one passed. It changed behaviors too.
Summerhays’s expensive carriage had attracted enough angry glares that she had told the coachman to stay at the inn in Failsworth, and she no longer made use of the conveyance. Today, when she and Margaret traveled the few miles to Eccles, they had taken Margaret’s little gig.
“I hope we made the correct choice, not bringing them back with us,” she said about the Foresters.
“This house is right on the road to Manchester. They are out of the way, and much safer there,” Margaret reassured. “If the inn at Eccles had room, I would have gladly left you there.”
Unfortunately the inn had been full. So now they would just go back tomorrow and make sure all was well. It should be, Daphne told herself. That did not help her nerves, though.
“Thank you for the tea,” Margaret said. She put aside her brush and picked up her cup to sip.
Daphne had purchased the tea on the way here, not sure what she would find. Fortunately, it appeared that Margaret lived comfortably and might well afford her own tea.
The house was not nearly as big as The Rarest Blooms. It did not have as much land attached to it. Nor did Margaret have a business, from what Daphne could tell.
“I also thank you for giving me hope about the property,” Margaret said. “When Becksbridge died, I thought for sure that his son would inherit and, of course, put me out. In the least I expected the rent to increase and my allowance to end. That will probably still happen, no matter if this other relative has received the property instead and lets me stay.”
“I do not believe that Castleford will leave you destitute.” She had no right to reassure Margaret. She did not even know for certain that this land had been part of Castleford’s inheritance. Yet with Margaret’s recent admission that she lived here due to Becksbridge’s benevolence, it made sense. Becksbridge must have sensed that Castleford would be more sympathetic than Latham ever would be.
“Perhaps, as a duke, he is so rich that he will not even bother with me,” Margaret said. “He may just forget about such a small inheritance.”
“Maybe so.” Daphne doubted that. Eventually the Tuesday would come when Castleford turned his mind to it all. It might be best for her to talk to him about Margaret and the others on the two remaining spots of land. She would not have to explain anything, since he had indicated he already had drawn conclusions about the four of them.
Margaret rose and walked to a window. She opened the casements to the night air. The middle of August brought chill with it in the evening, and the breeze wafting in made Margaret pull the knitted shawl that she wore tighter.
“It is so quiet,” she muttered. “Too quiet. I should not have encouraged you to come now. It could have waited, I suppose.”
“I wanted to come. To see you. I needed to know if my long suspicions that we shared a common history were correct. I should have guessed that your kindness to me was not an accident, but I confess it took me years to even wonder.” She paused. “And I needed to see that you were safe and the neighbors I came to love were too. And the Foresters. I needed to visit them and reassure myself that their village would not be burned to the ground or something, if trouble started.”
“They are all sworn to be peaceable, Daphne. I know these people. They are not only my neighbors, but some are my relatives and some are my dearest friends. All should be well at the demonstration tomorrow.”
Yes, all should be well. Yet the anger was in the air, and in men’s bodies and faces. Women too would march to Manchester. Margaret had described how some women had become very active among the workers and formed their own societies to hold meetings. One woman would even speak to the crowd tomorrow.
Margaret pulled her shawl tighter yet and looked out to the night. “It is so quiet,” she muttered again.
Very quiet. Like the whole world waited for something, while holding its breath.
C
astleford’s concern only grew as he rode toward Manchester the next morning. He passed people on the road, most on foot and others in wagons. Far too many used the road to be explained by any normal event or routine. They all headed north, toward the city, and their expressions spoke their serious purpose. They wore their best clothes, as if they were to attend a church service.
His instincts responded anyway. He found himself too alert, too observing, as if his soul sensed peril. His appearance attracted gazes that were not friendly, that was certain, but nothing was said or done to challenge him.
It was not these people that had him tense like an animal in a foreign forest. Rather a mood hung over the world and seeped into him that spoke of risk and hard decisions and of men being required to do unpleasant things because there was no other choice.
It reminded him of that night in France too much. Of being caught up in events that had taken a turn not expected, and which demanded actions more serious than ever anticipated.
Do not challenge me
, he silently said to two burly fellows who paid him too much attention as he trotted past them.
Do not make me hurt you in order to protect myself.
He circled wide around Manchester, to the north, and joined yet more marchers heading south. When he entered the village of Failsworth, he realized he had been passing the stragglers, not the main column of workers. The greater number must have passed hours before. A few more stragglers moved through the village itself, their faces firm with resolve. The village’s few shops had been closed, and other than the low muffle of those shoes and boots on the lanes, all was deathly still.
One door remained open, that of the tavern. He dismounted and entered, glad that one person had decided to sell drink and food to the demonstrators passing, rather than march himself.
The tavern was not crowded, since the day was passing and those still en route to the city still had a few miles to walk. However, enough eyes turned to scrutinize him that his senses sharpened in caution yet again.
He ignored their interest and peered around for the owner. His gaze was arrested on the figure of a man in a corner. Seemingly oblivious to the oddness of the village today, the fellow read a book by a window’s light while he sipped at a pint that had probably lasted hours already.
The man did not look like he worked in a mill. Castleford walked over, convinced he had seen the fellow before in London.
The man looked up blankly. Then he sat a little straighter. “Your Grace!” He began scrambling to stand.
Castleford subtly cut the air with his hand to indicate the man should remain seated and also that he not speak so loudly. “I have seen you at the ribbons of Summerhays’s coach, have I not?”
The man nodded. He glanced askance at the nearest table, from where eyes watched.
Castleford sat with the coachman. “Where is she? Mrs. Joyes? Is she in this village?”
“No, Your Grace. She is at a cottage a bit up the road. I have been staying here, up above, and the carriage and horses are at a stable.”
“Have you seen her since you brought her to that cottage?”
The coachman shook his head. “She told me she would come for me or send word if she needed me. Just gave me the coin to buy a bed and food, and that has been the whole of it the last two days.” His gaze slid sideways again. “I am trusting the lady is of sound sense and is not planning to walk with them, like the wives and children seem to be doing? Some ladies get these reforming notions sometimes and can do foolish things.”
“I do not think that is her intention, but perhaps not for lack of sympathy.” Daphne had not come here to march with workers, but she may have come here because workers would be marching. “I have a map with directions, but perhaps you would just describe this house and how to find it.”
The coachman explained how to find the little lane that led to a cottage with a blue door.
The proprietor walked by to serve some beer at the neighboring table and overheard while he did. He paused and gave Castleford a good look. “You be looking for Mrs. Rolland, are you? Have you business with her?”
Castleford called him over, then placed a guinea on the table to calm any suspicions. “Is that who lives up the road at the cottage?”
“That be the tenant there. She has lived here, oh, some ten years now. No, eleven. She came the year my son was born.”
“I am not looking for her as such. I am here to meet with her visitor. Perhaps you have seen this friend of hers. A tall woman, very lovely and very pale.”
The proprietor’s smile showed two broken teeth. “That would be Mrs. Joyes. Lovely ain’t the half of it, now is it? She is back for sure. She was seen yesterday in Mrs. Rolland’s gig, on the road to Eccles.”
“You know her then. Mrs. Joyes. Has she visited here often, then?”
The man laughed. “Doesn’t visit so often, but she lived in these parts, didn’t she? ’Bout for two years, on and off, some time ago. She stayed with Mrs. Rolland a while back then.” He wandered off to take care of his other patrons.
The tavern owner’s familiarity with Daphne did not surprise Castleford too much. If she had not followed the drum with Captain Joyes, she had to have lived somewhere those two years.
He stood. “You stay here,” he told the coachman. “Be ready to have that carriage ready fast if I send word.”
He went outside and mounted his horse again. He pointed its nose south, in the same direction those workers’ boots had trod.
Very few trod now. An unnatural silence had fallen on the village.
He found the cottage with no trouble. In easy walking distance to Failsworth, it was visible from the road. The little lane that the coachman had described was really a path through a deep front garden.
It occurred to him, as he swung off his horse, that he should have something to say, to explain his intrusion.
You are not supposed to be risking your neck with this foolhardy journey right now, Mrs. Joyes. You are supposed to be spending the week in my bed.
That no longer seemed an adequate explanation for his presence, or even accurate. He had spent too many hours in the saddle convincing himself she would not be in danger to deny now that the chance for danger was what had put him in the saddle to begin with.
If you were worried for friends up here, why did you not ask for my help?
He knew why she had not. He had hardly presented himself as someone looking to help her or do anything except seduce her.
With no good excuse in mind, he lifted the door knocker.
The house came alive with vague sounds. A curtain at the window parted. A long pause followed. Finally, the door opened and a red-haired woman faced him.
He neither spoke nor moved for a stunned five count. Then he passed her his card while he introduced himself. All through their little greeting, his mind raced, taking the facts he knew and putting them in a new arrangement.
Mrs. Rolland invited him in. He stepped over the threshold, cursing himself silently for being so stupid.
It was all there, but you chose not to see it. You did not want to know.
Mrs. Rolland had not recognized him. She truly did not know his name until he spoke it. He recognized her, however. He had seen her once, years ago, on her back in some weeds, with despair and terror in her eyes.
Mrs. Rolland, Daphne’s “sister,” was not one of old Becksbridge’s mistresses.
She was one of Latham’s victims.
“Y
our Grace.” Daphne shook while she made her little curtsy.
The expression on Castleford’s face worried her even more than his unexpected appearance here did. He looked very much a duke today.
He entered Margaret’s sitting room as if he called on a countess in Mayfair. A mask of reserve hid his thoughts. His eyes, however, told a different story to anyone who knew him well. They were the eyes of Castleford on a Tuesday, when he turns his considerable faculties to matters that he must address.
Damn his curiosity. Damn his prying
.
Look where it had led.
They all sat in Margaret’s modest home, while introductions gave way to silence.
Margaret looked to each of them in turn. She excused herself and left the chamber.
Castleford’s formality dropped then. He made himself more comfortable on his chair. He crossed his arms and regarded her as if he worked out a puzzle that had pieces he had not seen before.
Damn him
.
“Summerhays returned to town,” he said. “Imagine his surprise to discover that you had stolen one of his coaches and a coachman.”
“I will write and explain enough, and explain more when I return.”
“I would like you to share at least the
enough
part with me now. What are you doing here?”