Barbara Metzger (3 page)

Damn and blast, Courtney thought as he drove through streets crowded with people going home to supper, now he’d have to go hire himself a mistress. A beautiful mistress, too, to hang on his arm at the Argyle Rooms. But that breed was almost as gossipy as their pedigreed sisters. If he failed to perform after paying for the services, his reputation would be back in the mud. If he did give up his fool’s-gold goals and actually do the deed, he was liable to perform shabbily, from inexperience and lack of enthusiasm. Then he’d just be a laughingstock. Botheration. Besides, his leg was aching and it was snowing. Again.

Chapter Three

It was snowing again, oh dear. Kathlyn Partland was already two days late for her new governess position. Now she was lost in London, in the dark, in the snow. Oh dear indeed.

The hackney drivers must have taken their horses home to get out of the weather, Kathlyn thought, for there were no carriages to be hired. Therefore, if she did not wish to get to Lady Rotterdean’s house in Berkeley Square three days late, she’d have to walk, which didn’t faze her, country girl that she was. The garbled directions from a harassed stableboy did, though, and the unintelligible accents of the linkboys and crossing sweeps. Well, she was bound to come upon a major thoroughfare sooner or later, or someone who spoke the King’s English. Kathlyn shifted her portmanteau to her other hand, pulled the hood of her mantle tighter, and plodded on.

Lady Rotterdean was sure to understand that none of the delay was Kathlyn’s fault. She had to, for Kathlyn needed this position. She couldn’t go back home, since there was no home back in Cheshire, even if her meager resources could have financed the return journey. The lease on the cottage was expired, not that Kathlyn could have paid the rent after her father died, even if his tiny annuity hadn’t ended. They’d barely managed to make expenses when Papa was earning money tutoring. Mama’s family had been no help, which was no surprise, either. They hadn’t helped when Mama needed doctoring, and they hadn’t helped when she needed burying. Kathlyn had written to her wealthy maternal aunt anyway. She was still waiting for a reply, three months after Papa went to his final reward. Heavens, the mails weren’t that slow. Her own mail coach to London was only two days late, not three months, and that due to blizzards and bandits and Bow Street. Her aunt’s delay was entirely attributable to meanness and miserliness. Kathlyn thanked goodness for the vicar’s wife, who had a sister who sewed altar cloths with a neighbor of Lady Rotterdean, who needed a proper, educated female to be governess to her three daughters.

Kathlyn Partland was certainly educated, from sitting at so many of her father’s lessons. Transcribing his notes perfected her penmanship, and juggling the household expenses taught her mathematics. As Papa’s eyesight worsened, Kathlyn read to him for hours, history, geography, Latin, and Greek. She was more than qualified to teach three little girls—if she could only find them.

Kathlyn shifted the valise again. Her clothes and books must be picking up moisture from the snow, for the bag was growing heavier by the minute. Drat the snow, and drat the delay that meant Lady Rotterdean’s coachman wasn’t waiting for Kathlyn at the Swan Inn.

A tiny seed of resentment grew with the blister on Kathlyn’s palm from the suitcase’s straps. She had sent a note to Lady Rotterdean along with the driver’s message to his dispatcher, explaining the problems and estimating their arrival. The man in the coaching office swore her note had been delivered. He’d also sworn Berkeley Square was a mere few blocks away. He wasn’t the one toting a ton of baggage in wet shoes, in bone-chilling weather. Neither was Lady Rotterdean.

Kathlyn knew that she shouldn’t have come. She should have taken the vicar’s offer to stay with him and his family until she found a position close to home. She shouldn’t have let pride and determination send her haring off into the unknown, rather than accept charity. But the humble vicarage already held four children. Kathlyn had to make her own way in life, so she had to come to London. She simply should have planned better. But how could she have guessed the whole journey would be such a disaster?

First came the roadblock. The Royal Mail was just two changes out of Manchester, where Kathlyn had gotten on, when the carriage suddenly halted, amid much shouting and jingling of harness.

“It’s highwaymen!” shrieked one of Kathlyn’s fellow passengers. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett were newlyweds visiting since Christmas with his family in Liverpool. A month with the in-laws was showing in the pale woman’s frayed nerves. Mr. Tibbett patted her hand and chewed on his lip.

“Nonsense. It’s broad daylight and this is His Majesty’s Mail. No one would dare hold us up.” Still, Mr. Lundquist, a wool merchant who plied his trade between York and London, removed his wallet from his coat pocket and stuffed it between the seat cushions.

Kathlyn lowered the window to see what was going on. Mrs. Tibbett screamed louder, as though the window were any protection from highwaymen. “There are two carts blocking the way,” Kathlyn reported, “and some men are arguing with our driver.” When Mrs. Tibbett’s cries turned to muffled sobs, Kathlyn could make out the driver’s angry words.

“No ha’penny shire sheriff can stop the Royal Mail, and Oi don’t care how many bloody writs ye wave in me face. Now, get yer blasted turnip wagons off the road. Ye’re costin’ me time.”

The local men stood their ground. “I got me orders from the magistrate,” their leader yelled up at the coachman on his box. “I’m s’posed to search every carriage an’ every wagon, lookin’ for a dangerous criminal what broke out of gaol. You’re obstructin’ justice, that’s what you’re doin’. An’ your guard is threatenin’ a minion of the law with that there blunderbuss.”

“Yer hayseed minion’s goin’ to be missin’ an arm iffen you don’t move those carts.”

Kathlyn shook her head, opened the carriage door, and got out, despite Mrs. Tibbett’s pleas. “This is absurd,” she told the men on the ground waving pitchforks. “There is no escaped felon on board. And you,” she added, addressing the box, “could have had us on our way ages ago if you’d only let them look.” She held the door open and gestured for the leader of the posse to come see for himself.

The man bobbed his head and shuffled toward the carriage, one eye on the rifle in the guard’s hands. He could see right off that there was no desperate outlaw in the coach, but he made a point of holding a poster up to poor Mr. Tibbett, whose wife was clinging like a limpet to his neck, throwing dagger looks at Kathlyn for subjecting them to such horrid indignity. “No, too young.”

Mr. Lundquist, in his expensive, fur-collared overcoat, was too old.

“ ‘Sides, he’s sportin’ a mustache. Our man’s clean-shaved. You can cut it off, but you can’t grow it back. Lessen you glue one on, I s’pose.”

“Yes, yes, but Mr. Lundquist wouldn’t do that. And you said yourself, he’s too old.” Which earned Kathlyn a scowl from that gentleman, but did end the scrutiny of the last of the rustic lawmen.

Outside of Stafford, the coach was halted again. This time Mrs. Tibbett was right to get distraught. The two masked men who rode out of the woods, firing their pistols and wounding the guard, really were highwaymen. Mr. Lundquist hid his wallet again. Amazingly, the bridle culls didn’t demand money and jewels, which was a relief to Kathlyn, since she had precious little of the first and only her mama’s locket of the second. Contrary to Mrs. Tibbett’s high-pitched prediction, the high toby men weren’t interested in rape or abduction either. They, too, wanted merely to search the carriage.

Whatever they were seeking wasn’t there. The shorter of the men spit at the slamming door. “T’bastid couldn’t a got far, not with me good knife in ‘im.”

The other outlaw was already mounting his horse. “To hell with yer shiv. I want the bloody jewels the flash cove prigged from us.”

The guard had to be helped inside, where Kathlyn held the man’s muffler against his shoulder to stop the bleeding. Mr. Lundquist, having taken on a greenish cast, decided to ride up with the driver, to give her more room. The young couple was no assistance either, Mrs. Tibbett having hysterics and her husband resorting to his flask.

When they reached Lichfield, every one of the inside passengers had to be helped out of the coach. Kathlyn thought her arms would never unbend from holding the guard upright for so long. He’d live, and so would a limp Mrs. Tibbett, taken in hand by the landlady. Mr. Tibbett was another matter, casting up his accounts in the stable yard.

The driver decided to spend the night there. The Mail was supposed to run through the night, with carriage lamps lighting the way. Not without a guard, the driver decided, not with so many miscreants on the road. He did send a messenger on ahead to London, a boy who could ride cross-country, warning the dispatch office of the delay. Kathlyn parted with a handful of coins to see that Lady Rotterdean was also notified.

The next morning they left early with fresh horses, jugs of hot cider, and a substitute guard, who never even drew his pistol at the man standing in the roadway. Mr. Lundquist didn’t bother hiding his money this time, and Mrs. Tibbett didn’t bother working herself into a tizzy. She just went off in a dead faint across her husband’s narrow chest.

Kathlyn was entirely out of patience. “How dare you—” she began when the door opened.

“How do you do, miss. Would you mind if I share the carriage with you good people? My horse seems to have decided that it’s not fit weather for man nor beast today, and gone off without me.” The stranger drew his heavy frieze coat closer around himself. “I really need to be on my way.”

The man looked cold and weary, as if he and his horse had parted company some miles back. Kathlyn edged over on the seat to make room, trying not to crowd Mr. Lundquist overmuch. That gentleman didn’t move an inch closer toward the window, muttering about how the driver must have accepted a heavy bribe to put some stray passenger on the waybill. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tibbett was moaning as her husband waved a vinaigrette under her nose. The newcomer looked toward Kathlyn, so she explained about the highwaymen and the posse and the injured guard, remembering to offer the man some of the hot cider. He accepted gratefully, but with shaking hands, from being out in the cold, Kathlyn supposed. He seemed interested in her story, even smiling a bit, but then pulled his hat lower over his eyes and slumped in his corner. He didn’t awaken at the next two stops, forcing the others to clamber over his legs.

When they halted for a quick supper, Kathlyn tried to rouse the man. “Mr. Miner, sir? The driver says there won’t be another break until morning,” she warned, “except to change the horses, of course. You must come into the inn now or you’ll go hungry.”

When he pushed his hat back, Kathlyn could see that Mr. Miner was not simply weary, but ill. He was ashen in color, with deep lines etched in his face. “I don’t wish to intrude, sir, but you must have taken a chill or some hurt from your toss. You should stay here where a physician can be called to attend you.”

He tried to smile. “Nothing to worry about, miss. No sawbones.” He reached inside his coat with a trembling hand and withdrew a flask and a pound note. “Could you have them fill this?”

Kathlyn did, and bought him a slice of meat pie and a mug of hot coffee with the change. He tried to eat with the same shaking left hand, after Kathlyn unwrapped the pasty for him. She held the mug to his lips while Mrs. Tibbett sniffed her disapproval.

Mr. Miner frowned until the other woman turned away, then told Kathlyn, “You have a good heart, miss. What my mother used to call a shining soul. Thank you.” He closed his eyes again.

Kathlyn smiled and set the empty mug on the coach floor. As she reached over, she thought she saw rusty flecks on Mr. Miner’s boots and leather breeches. Blood? No, it couldn’t be. She was having nightmares from the wounded guard, that was all. Kathlyn quickly picked up her book and tried to read by the last light of day, rather than let her imagination run amok. But Mr. Miner was middle-aged, not young, not old. He was clean-shaven and well spoken. A flash cove? No, only an unfortunate accident victim who refused to see a doctor. She went to sleep, wedged between the wool merchant and the jewel thief.

When she awoke in the morning the carriage was at a standstill and the driver was at the door, shouting, “Gents out.”

Mr. Lundquist and Mr. Tibbett stepped down into a snowdrift. Mr. Miner had sweat on his forehead, and seemed surprised to find himself in a coach at all.

“He’s too ill to get out,” Kathlyn told the driver.’

“ ‘E’ll get a lot sicker iffen we stay stuck ‘ere like this. We’ll all bloody well freeze to death, beg pardon, miss, iffen we don’t lighten the load so’s the horses can pull us out. Been snowin’ all night, ‘n’ looks to keep on.”

“I’ll get down,” Kathlyn volunteered, putting her hood up.

Mrs. Tibbett wasn’t happy. “You can’t leave me here alone with him,” she whined. “What if he’s contagious?”

“Then my staying with you won’t help,” Kathlyn replied curtly, setting her book and reticule on the empty seat. “We’ve all been exposed.”

A half-smile flickered across Mr. Miner’s face. “Not catching.”

Mrs. Tibbett got down, too. The baggage was unloaded and the mailbags, the wheels were dug out, and the carriage hauled back to the roadway. By the time the passengers were allowed back inside, they were cold, wet, and weary. Mrs. Tibbett was crying and Mr. Lundquist was consulting his appointments book, trying to figure how much longer the trip would take at the slower speed they were forced to keep.

“Oh dear,” Kathlyn fretted, thinking of her new position.

Mr. Miner spoke softly, only to her. “Don’t worry. Your goodness will be rewarded.”

He must think she was reading the Bible, Kathlyn realized, following his eyes to her book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. She shook her head. Surely while she was waiting for her heavenly reward, she would lose her employment here on earth.

They traveled slowly and cautiously, changing horses more frequently as the beasts exhausted themselves pulling the carriage through the snow. Finally, though, they were just one or two stops away from London. Kathlyn urged Mr. Miner to stay behind, to find medical help. He refused again.