The Cottage in the Woods (13 page)

Constable Murdley peered suspiciously at the choristers. “Awfully late in the evening to be holding a choir practice, ain’t it?”

“Well, well, Constable, these are workingmen, you know. This was the only hour they could all get away. We just called this emergency rehearsal at the last minute. I’m sure you will understand why, having heard them sing.”

The chief constable snorted—I could not tell whether in amusement or contempt—and he walked up the aisle to the choir
loft, lifting his lantern and looking into the faces of the men’s choir, one by one. He stopped when he came to Mr. Vaughn. “Oh, excuse me, Squire,” he said with exaggerated deference. “I didn’t know you were here! You singing with this bunch?”

“As you see,” replied Mr. Vaughn, nodding condescendingly, lending his full dignity to the motley group. I noticed then with horror that Mr. Bentley was holding his hymnal upside down, but the constable passed him by, and, turning to Reverend Snover, said, “Do you vouch for these gentlemen, Reverend?”

“Oh yes, indeed,” the vicar asserted manfully. “Yes, indeed. Fine citizens, one and all.”

“Well, if you see anyone suspicious, report it right away! We’ll have those troublemakers up before Judge Slugby.
He’ll
teach them a thing or two!”

“We’ll certainly keep our eyes open, won’t we, gentlemen?”

The members of the men’s choir all assented, wearing their most solemn expressions.

Constable Murdley seemed satisfied with this, and he and his fellows made a hasty departure. “Now, then, verse four,” Reverend Snover called out loudly, and I shook myself to attention and forced myself to focus on the notes and play. Most of the choir joined in, and the reverend shouted, “Onward now! With spirit!” as he signaled a young man in the front row to go to the window.

We struggled valiantly on until the young man at the window said, “All clear. They’ve gone.”

The singing stopped abruptly, and the atmosphere grew deadly serious. “Come now, get him to the house and into bed,” the reverend urged Fairchild and Mr. Vaughn, and between them they half carried, half dragged Mr. Bentley to the door. I gasped as his open coat revealed a bloody shirtfront.

“You there, Wilson,” the mild-mannered vicar barked to a young man. “Fetch the surgeon! The rest of you, to your homes! And for Heaven’s sake, be here to sing for the service on Sunday. You can bet Constable Murdley will be checking up on us. Miss Brown, if you would be so good as to help my wife? Tell her we’ll need hot water, bandages, and plenty of brandy. Mr. Bentley’s been shot.”

I ran ahead to the vicarage, where Mrs. Snover accepted this information with equanimity. She asked no questions, but set a pot of water on to boil and gave me an old sheet to rip into bandages. As soon as Mr. Bentley had been put to bed, we set about cutting off his shirt, and some of his fur, and cleaning the injury: a bullet hole in his left shoulder. A small group remained at the patient’s bedside; the vicar, Mr. Vaughn, and Fairchild were speaking in low tones, but not troubling to hide their conversation from me. It seemed that I had earned entrance into their little fellowship. My interest aroused, I pieced together from snatches of conversation that the Anthropological Society had attempted to burn down the house that the Bremen Town Musicians had moved into. Apparently, this band of villagers and Forest folk I had just met as the men’s choir had fought to stop the arsonists. It looked like they might have prevailed and put out the fire until the constables, being conveniently near at hand, had begun shooting—not at the arsonists, but at the
villagers and Forest folk who were trying to stop them. In the end the musicians’ house had burned to the ground, but the little band of rebels had managed to spirit away the four Bremen Town Musicians unharmed. There had been only one casualty.

Mr. Bentley moaned, and I held his head and offered him a sip of brandy. He accepted this gratefully, then looked up at me and breathed, “Ah, a ministering angel!” I could feel myself blushing—a condition that, mercifully, was invisible to onlookers. Torn between sympathy and exasperation, I could have wished that he had expressed his gratitude in a less familiar way. “Don’t fret yourself, Miss Brown,” he muttered thickly. “It’s the veriest scratch.” Then he closed his eyes, and his head rolled heavily to one side. Concerned, I glanced at Mrs. Snover, who covered my paw with her hand, and said, “He’s just unconscious, dear. He’s better off this way,” as if she thought I was in despair over him! Not knowing how to disabuse her of the notion, I kept silent.

The surgeon came at last, taking mastery of the situation. He asked me if I was queasy at the sight of blood, and, wanting to be helpful, I said no, whereupon he asked me to stay at my post to administer more brandy should the patient awaken. I swiftly found that not only did so much blood make me queasy, but it made me fairly faint as well, and it was only by counting backward from one hundred as I focused intently on Mr. Bentley’s eyes that I managed to stay upright and keep from being sick. And so I tended to him while the surgeon worked, and Mrs. Snover assisted as his nurse. Little need be said here of the surgeon’s skillful handling of the case, or of Mr. Bentley’s quiet suffering, but at last the bullet was removed, the wound was cauterized, and Mr. Bentley lay resting. We could only wait
now, and see if infection set in, but everything had been done that could be done, and it was time to go. I bid the reverend and his wife a fond goodbye.

Mr. Vaughn and Fairchild had waited for news of Mr. Bentley’s condition, and so we returned home together, a circumstance I was most grateful for, making my way through the Stygian shadows of the night forest with one of them on either side of me. We traveled in silence until we entered the house, where some considerate soul had left rushlights burning, and then Mr. Vaughn stopped me with his paw on my arm, and said, “A moment, please, Miss Brown.” Fairchild tipped his hat, said good night, and went on his way. In a hushed voice, Mr. Vaughn continued, “I’d like you to know, Miss Brown, how sorry I am that you have been drawn into events that are so ugly and potentially dangerous. You performed admirably, and your father would have been proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir, but I barely understand what happened tonight. Who were you fighting when Mr. Bentley was shot, and why should they want to burn someone’s house down?”

“You surely remember the Anthropological Society?”

“Yes. How could I forget? But what is happening? What do they want?”

“They are bigots and bullies. They masquerade as a harmless social club, but we have agents inside the group who tell us that their grand high chief, that same Mr. Babcock who took over the newspaper, wants nothing less than total separation between humans and the Enchanted animals of the Forest, and if that is accomplished, there’s nothing to stop them from stealing away our voting rights and raising taxes on our property until we’ve nothing left. That is what we’re up against. Right now they’re
waging a battle to sway the opinion of the populace, doing their best to inflame sentiments against the Enchanted, but tonight’s violence is the worst we’ve seen. You understand why I don’t want you getting mixed up with them? I owe it to your papa to keep you safe.”

My heart was inflamed by his speech. How could I hear that my own kind were being plotted against and trodden on without wanting to help? “Please, sir,” I said, “let me do something too. I believe Papa would want me to follow my conscience. Will the men’s choir be meeting again? I could play the accompaniment for them like I did tonight. Please let me help.”

“You can help by keeping this night’s exploits a secret.
Una omnes posset condenabitis lapsu
, my dear. ‘One slip could endanger us all.’ I recognize that such secrets are a burden to carry, and I am sorry for that too. I must ask even more: that you will not breathe a word of this to Mrs. Vaughn. She tends to suffer from her nerves, and I have sheltered her thus far from knowing about the activities of our little band of rebels. She would worry all out of proportion.”

I wondered if it was “all out of proportion” to worry when his little band of rebels were being shot at, but I dared not question him.

As if he had heard my thoughts, he said, “It’s better this way. You must trust me, Miss Brown.”

“Of course, sir,” I answered. “I’ll do as you say.”

“Thank you, Miss Brown.”

We went into the house, and parted. I lit a candle, and, facing the dark corridor, prepared myself to make the long trip to my chamber, alone. Holding my candle aloft, I straightened my spine and set forth. I traversed the seemingly endless
passageways and the stairs with barely a quiver, refusing to allow my imagination to torment me. Only as I approached the door to my room did I stop and listen. Was that a shuffling footstep, or merely the soft murmur of the wind? Was there a wind? I had noticed none on the walk back from the vicarage. Whose footsteps could it be? Was the one I thought of as the Walker roaming the hallways tonight? What did he want of me? Quickly, I fumbled with my key and fit it in the lock of my door, opening it just as my nerves got the better of me and set me to trembling. I shut the door behind me and tried to lock it, dropping the key twice before I succeeded. Still apprehensive, I put my ear to the door and listened for any footstep, but heard nothing.

Finally, I leaned my head against the wall and allowed the tension to drain out of me. It had been an extraordinary night, and my mind was racing. I changed into my nightgown, climbed between the sheets, and tried to think of home and Papa, but I kept coming back to the image of Mr. Bentley smiling up at me despite his pain, and calling me his “ministering angel.” Try as I might to banish it from my mind, this last obstinate impression persisted long after my eyes closed.

I’m afraid that my mind strayed disgracefully during Reverend Snover’s sermon on Sunday. The only thing that captured my attention was the heroic performance of the men’s choir, and that was certainly more proof of their courage than of their musical talent. Noting that Mrs. Snover was absent, I could not help but wonder if she was attending Mr. Bentley, and how he was doing. Directly after the service, I called at the vicarage, and was
shown to the sickroom. Mr. Bentley was sleeping fitfully, and Mrs. Snover was doing her best to comfort him with cool cloths against his brow. From her haggard look, I surmised that she had sat up with him all night. It seemed only right to relieve her and send her to get some rest, so I promised that I would tend to him in her place.

“His fever’s quite high,” she said. “We must try to keep him cool. He won’t be out of danger until the fever breaks.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m afraid it’s rather improper for a young she-bear such as yourself to be sitting alone at a gentleman’s bedside. Your papa might not approve.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I am convinced Papa would say that need takes precedence over propriety.”

Mrs. Snover only smiled. “I will leave you to your nursing, then.”

I changed the cloth on Mr. Bentley’s head, and then settled down in the rocking chair that Mrs. Snover had lately occupied. Mr. Bentley tossed and turned, moaning softly in his sleep. From time to time he would call what might have been a name, but I could not make it out. Without thinking about it, I began humming a soothing little ballad Papa used to sing to me when I was ill and restless. I had been rocking and singing for some time before I realized that Mr. Bentley’s eyes were open and watching me. Mortified, I stopped, and said, “Did I awaken you? I’m sorry.”

“No,” he rumbled. “It’s nice. Go on.” So I went on. He closed his eyes again, and seemed to relax into the pillows. I sang until I was sure he was asleep, then put a fresh log on the fire, and cast about for something to occupy myself with. Behind the rocking chair was a low shelf with a row of books on it. Expecting to see
Pilgrim’s Progress
, I was surprised to see
Faust, Gulliver’s Travels
, a volume of Voltaire’s essays, and similar fare. I picked up
Robinson Crusoe
and began to read.

As time passed, Mr. Bentley became restless again, and the fever showed no signs of abating. He muttered things under his breath, which I could make no sense of—except for two syllables that I finally made out to be “Amy.” He repeated this several times: “Amy.” I wondered who Amy might be that she held such a place in his dreams, though it was probably none of my business.