The barkeep had spread Timmy’s purse open on the bar, and at each splintering crash had lifted an appropriate coin. He grinned at Timmy as he dropped a handful in his strongbox.
“Take some out o’ his, too!” the red-haired man barked, glowering and jerking a thumb at Christopher.
The barkeep shrugged and countered, “He ain’t smashed nothin’, not even his bloomin’ mug.”
Timmy lurched across the room and snatched up the slim remainder of his purse. He tucked it away as Christopher placed his cup intact upon the plank. The Yankee picked up his frock coat and turned to his captain as he donned it.
“Care for a stroll, John?” he asked. “I feel a need to cool off some.”
The captain smiled and puffed his pipe alight, and the two left the tavern. Haggard lent an arm to Timmy and sought to smooth his ruffled feathers.
“Don’t give him no mind, mate. Why, ye were so fast he hardly laid a hand on ye.”
Her father’s words burned in Erienne’s memory with the bitter gall of betrayal. The fact that he could have been so crass as to take her flippant suggestion seriously flawed his character in her mind. Her thoughts traced slowly over the events that had led up to her present predicament, seeking to find that exact moment when all had gone astray. Yesterday she would have been ready to blame Christopher Seton for their troubles, but what she had heard from her father’s own lips changed much of that. She was seeing her parent’s true character much more clearly now, and it shamed her to the core.
Born in the back of her mind, where it persisted like a stubborn seed caught between one’s teeth, was the thought that the cottage where they lived had ceased to be her home. It was a realization of which she was becoming increasingly aware. Yet there was no place else to go. She had no kin that she knew of, no other haven to seek out. If she left, her fortune would be what she would make herself.
Erienne’s dilemma seethed, and its solution hid itself in the chaotic frenzy of her thoughts. She was like a raft set adrift in a turbulent sea—having no security where she was, but finding no escape from it either.
When darkness descended, she withdrew to her bedchamber. Beyond the protection of the cottage’s walls, the wind howled, and the low clouds made the night sky a dense black ether that devoured any struggling light. She laid a large block of peat on the fire and sank in a chair before the hearth, draping her hands listlessly over the wooden arms. Smoke welled up around the dried turf, and then slowly the tongues of flickering fire began to lick upward to consume the block. While the twisting, dancing flames held her eye, her mind roamed far afield.
There was, of course, Christopher’s proposal. Erienne leaned back against the wooden frame of the chair and imagined herself on his arm, dressed in a rich gown, with twinkling jewels twined about her throat. He could show her the sights of the world and, when they were alone, the secrets of love. Her mind and heart could become hopelessly entangled with fulfilling his every desire until…
Her mind formed a vision of herself standing with a swollen belly before her stalwart lover. His arm was raised in a silent command for her to depart, and there was a frown of displeasure on his face.
Erienne angrily shook her head to thrust the image from her mind. What Christopher Seton proposed was quite out of the question. If she gave herself to him, there would always be the gnawing fear that she’d be just another one of his light-of-loves, cherished today but forgotten tomorrow.
The house grew still as her father and brother retired for the night. Farrell had seemed somewhat abashed by his part in the preparations for the roup. As his father had bade, he had penned the wording and delivered the parchments to the posting boards, but then he had grown glum and distant with the passing of hours. He had been abnormally polite to her, even remaining sober, yet Erienne held no hope that he would help her, for that would mean going against their father, and he had always held the elder in the highest esteem.
The fire flamed high, then died back. The peat glowed and snapped as if with a stoic purpose to consume itself. Erienne stared into its softly burning light until the clock chimed twice. She glanced around her in surprise and rubbed her suddenly chilled hands together. The room was icy cold, and on the small stand beside the bed the flaming wick of a candle sputtered feebly in a puddle of melted wax. She flinched as her feet struck the cold floor, and she eagerly sought out the cozy warmth beneath the heavy quilts of her bed. As she huddled under them, a firm conviction settled down within her thoughts. On the morrow she would fly. Somewhere, someone would have need of her neat, well-formed penmanship or her quick, easy way with numbers, and they might be moved to pay her a stipend for the proper application of both or either. Perhaps a widowed duchess or a countess in London would have need of a companion. With such a hope burning in her, Erienne relaxed and freed her mind so it could at last seek out that sweet, numb bliss of Morpheus.
Sleet plagued the morning sky, coming down in a fine mist, and quickly formed a thin, crusty layer of ice over the roads. Avery paused in the Boar’s Inn, where he ordered a draught of bitters. “ ’Tis medicinal in nature,” he was wont to excuse if anyone raised a brow and questioned. After massaging his dewlaps and loudly clearing his throat, he would further explain, “Clears the soots and tars from me pipes, it does. Aye, and I needs it for the ripeness of me age.”
On this frosty morn, Jamie slid a scupper of bitters to him with a comment. “Thought ye might not be comin’ out on a day like this, Mayor.”
“Argh, on a day like this more’n any other.” Avery’s voice was hoarse and gravelly after the brief walk in the chill weather. He rubbed his belly as if to soothe a pain and pushed the scupper back. “Put a finger o’ solid brandy in it, Jamie. A man needs a bit o’ fire in his innards to bring him alive on a chill morn’n’.”
When the innkeeper complied, Avery seized the fortified bitters and took a liberal draught. “Aaarrgh,” he bellowed, lowering the cup. He hammered his breastbone with a closed fist. “Brings a man to life. Aye! That it does. Quickens the mind.” He leaned an elbow on the wooden planks and took on the manner of a man expounding a deep, hidden truth. “And ye know, Jamie, ’tis a grave need for a man in me delicate position ter keep his mind as quick as it can be. ’Tis a rare night we can feel safe in our beds, what wit’ bein’ at the whims and schemes o’ them Scots who come down wit’ their clans and do war agin’ us. We need our wits about us, Jamie. That we do.”
The innkeeper interjected with an appropriate nod and busied himself scrubbing pewter mugs. The subject was clearly a favored one in Avery’s heart, and he rambled on, content with the other’s feigned interest. Avery did not realize that at the moment the revolt was much closer to home.
Erienne’s plan did not extend beyond the immediate moment of escape. It was enough that she had decided in what direction to go. London was not unfamiliar to her, and it was a likely place to start her search for employment.
She dressed herself warmly for the trip that would take her from her home. Farrell’s snores continued to fill the silence even as she crept downstairs to the back door. The satchel she carried held the sum total of her possessions. It was not much, but it would have to do.
Settling her hood over her head as protection against the frigid weather, she lifted her skirts and ran quickly across the yard to the lean-to where the gelding was kept. Since Farrell no longer tended the animal and she had taken over the stable duties to see it properly cared for, she would lay claim to it now. She was determined to see herself better prepared than when she had set out on foot from Wirkinton.
The sidesaddle was hers, given to her by her mother, but hardly rich enough to be worth selling, which no doubt was the reason it was still in her possession. Her father would have confiscated it long ago had he thought there would have been some gain in doing so.
The horse was tall, and even with the aid of a step, she had to jump, half dragging herself across the sidesaddle. Stabbing blindly with her foot until she found the stirrup, s
he twisted about clumsily to arrange herself and her skirts, all the while keeping a tight rein on the prancing steed.
“Walk softly if you care for my hide, Socrates,” she admonished, rubbing his neck. “I have a need for stealth this morning, and I do not wish to rouse the town.”
The horse nickered and tossed its head, displaying its desire to be gone. Erienne saw no need to delay him. Having made up her mind, she was just as eager as he to be on her way.
She urged him from the lean-to, then caught her breath and bent her face away from a pelting gust of sleet. She loathed the prospect of another uncomfortable ride, but there was nothing short of a horrific disaster that would keep her from it.
Inside the inn, Avery’s voice droned on while the innkeeper neared the front window to nudge Ben from his loud snoring. “ ’Ere now, find yerself another place ter bed down. I’m tired o’ hearin’ ’at noise.” He paused to look out the panes and gave a short grunt. “Now ’ere’s one wit’ a stiff craw,” he observed, gesturing in the direction of the horse and rider coming down the road. “She’ll be chilled ter her bones ’fore too long. I wonder who…” He stared at the figure more intently, then his jaw dropped as recognition came. “ ’Od’s bodken! Get yerself over ’ere, Mayor. Ain’ that yer daughter?”
Avery waved an arm in dismissal. “Goin’ out ter market, no doubt.” He jerked his thumb to the handbill displayed on the opposite wall. “We’ve had a bit of a tiff over that, we have. Ain’t hardly said two words ter me since me boy posted ’em. Gets a little uppity when things go agin’ the way she wants. Goin’ out on a day like this an’ leavin’ a good, warm fire shows she ain’t got a brain in her head. Why…” He began to show a bit of concern and stepped toward the window, hitching up his breeches over his belly. “She could catch her death out there in the wet, and she’d fairly knock the bottom out o’ the biddin’ if she had ter stand up wit’ a drippin’ nose and a case o’ the sniffles.”
“Goin’ ter market, ha!” Jamie scoffed. “She gots her a mount and a big bundle on behind her.” He suppressed his rising laughter at the sight of Avery’s darkening scowl and suddenly crimson face. His voice was almost small as he continued. “I think she’s havin’ none o’ it, Mayor. I think…she’s leavin’ ye.”
Avery launched himself toward the portal and jerked it open as his daughter rode past. He ran out onto the street, bellowing her name, but Erienne, recognizing his voice, slashed Socrates’s flanks to send the animal into a full-out gallop down the road.
“Erienne!” Avery called again, then cupped his hands and shouted at the rapidly fleeing figure. “Erienne Fleming! Come back here, ye little twit! There’s no place from here ter London where ye can hide from me! Come back! Come back, I say!”
A sense of panic seized Erienne. Perhaps it had only been a wild guess her father made, but his threat set her plans awry. He would follow. He would rouse Farrell, and they would soon be after her on whatever conveyance they could find. If she kept to the road south, they might overtake her, or if she reached London, he would give the word to his friends to keep an eye out for her, no doubt promising a healthy reward if they brought her back.
A sudden thought dawned. If she rode on until she was out of sight of the hamlet, then cut westward for a space and picked up the old coast road going north, she might yet escape them all. She smiled at her own wisdom and the accompanying vision of her father riding south at breakneck speed. He would be furious when he could not find her.
A short distance past Mawbry, Erienne slowed the horse to a walk and began to watch for a rocky place where her departure from the road could not be later noted. Leaving the lane, she wove a serpentine path through a wooded copse for a time, and farther on prodded Socrates over a rocky slope and through a small, shallow stream. By the time she was headed north, she was fairly confident that her trail could not be followed.
Once she had made the wide sweep around Mawbry, she let Socrates go at his own speed. The gelding was not in condition for extended runs and tired easily when she prodded him into the faster gaits. At the slower pace, she felt the chill more and clutched the heavy woolen cloak about her in an attempt to find as much warmth as possible.
The ground grew considerably more broken and hilly as she progressed northward. Undulating moors spotted with gray tarns swept out before her, fading into obscurity as the leaden sky came down to touch the horizon.
Around noon, she paused to take food and rest, finding shelter beneath a tree. Huddling in her cloak, she chewed on a piece of cold meat and tore off a small chunk of bread, then shared water with the gelding, who grazed nearby. She tried to rest, but the persistent presence of grayish-green eyes staring at her from the back of her mind thwarted her effort. It irritated her that even in his absence he could annoy her.
In the saddle again, she was forced to concentrate on the terrain. The going was becoming steadily more difficult, with gullies and washouts cutting her path now and again. The knolls and hills were barren and windswept with a few gnarled trees. In the deeper, sheltered valleys, the oaks were tall and ancient, spreading their limbs far over her head, having left a twisted jumble of fallen, moss-bedecked branches and brushwood for her to guide her mount through.
By late afternoon, a great weariness took hold of her, and she began to entertain the idea of finding shelter. Coming upon a narrow path in a wooded copse, she paused a moment to survey the land. Somewhere ahead of her the baying of hounds blended with the soft sounds of the falling mists. It was a welcoming sound, for it promised of civilization nearby.
Suddenly in the silence a rock tumbled behind her, startling her. With her heart thumping in her bosom she gazed over her shoulder and peered through the oncoming gloom, searching for the source. Nothing stirred, yet she could not shake the feeling that something was out there. Uneasy now, she urged Socrates forward into his loose-jointed canter and crossed a rise in the path where she pulled the horse up in the shelter of a large tree, turning him about so she could view the trail behind her without being seen. She waited tensely, remembering Christopher’s dire warnings about traveling alone. At the moment she thought she might welcome the sight of him. At least he was no friend of her father.
The clatter of horse’s hooves and tumbling stones again startled her from her thoughts. Whirling Socrates about, she kicked him into a full run, keeping him to the side of the path, where the ground was soft and the hoofbeats echoed less. She raced headlong down the narrow, winding lane. Beyond the gnarled roots of a twisted tree, the path dipped down, then turned hard, almost back upon itself. Socrates slipped but managed to keep his feet beneath him, and with wild abandon flung himself around the bend, charging full bore into a large pack of yelping, scattering hounds that were hot on the trail of a fleeing hind. Their blood was up, and they snapped at the flashing hooves as the frightened horse jumped and reared. The reins were jerked from Erienne’s hands, and in desperation she gripped the flying mane with both hands, fighting to keep her slippery seat. One hound drew blood, and the warm, wet taste in his mouth was all it took. As the horse dashed on past in a wild-eyed frenzy, the dog threw back his head and gave vent to a hunting call. It sent the pack in quick pursuit of this new quarry that raced on down the trail.
The path angled across a swift-flowing brook. Only the open way of the stream could be seen, and without guidance the horse swerved to follow it. He sped along the rock-strewn bed against the current, sending a spray of water wide on either side. She cried out for him to stop and tried to turn his head as she saw ahead of them a rising hill over which the stream tumbled in burbling abandon. As he struck the first upslope, the gelding went to his knees, and Erienne fought to stay in the saddle. Then he lunged upward, trying to climb the rocky streambed. He slid and stumbled backward, then slowly clawed the air with his forefeet before he began to topple over.
Erienne’s cry of alarm was silenced abruptly when she hit the rock-littered bank. Her head slammed against a moss-covered stone, and a white flash of p
ain burst in her brain. Slowly the brightness ebbed, and a deepening dusk descended. She saw the dark shapes of the trees above her, wavering and indistinct as if through a sheet of water. Fighting the darkening shrouds of oblivion, she rolled and tried to rise to her feet. The glade swam and dipped with a sudden lurch. She caught herself against the icy bank, struggling against the current that would drag her in deeper while her legs grew numb in the cold, rippling stream.
The baying had changed to a snarling, yelping mélange, and she could see a confusion of roiling white and brown at the vale’s edge and realized the pack was nearly upon her. One charged closer, snarling and snapping, and in desperation, Erienne lashed out weakly with the riding crop that was still clutched in her fist. The dog yelped and leapt away as it struck. Another tried, and for his effort got the same treatment, but Erienne’s arms were growing weary, her vision blurred. The pain in the back of her head was spreading down her neck and across her shoulders. It tore at every nerve in her being, sapping her strength and her will. The hounds sensed her weakness and gathered eagerly closer. Erienne fought to clear her vision and waved the crop feebly in front of her.