The Man in the Green Coat (3 page)

"
Je regrette
, mademoiselle, that the saddlebags were lost in your flight from the soldiers.”

“So I shall after all arrive in England in breeches! Well, it can’t be helped.”

“There is some bread and sausage in the cabin if you are hungry.” The fisherman seemed anxious to make amends for the missing saddlebags.

“I am indeed! Gerard, help me up, if you please. Gerard? What is the matter?”

Even by lantern light, Gerard’s face was greenish. One hand to stomach, one to mouth, he rushed to the rail and leaned over.

Willem laughed. “
Le mal de mer!
Never fear, mademoiselle, no one dies of seasickness, though one may wish to. Permit that I assist you.”

He helped her up, and leaning on his strong arm, she stumbled painfully to the cabin.

Chapter 3

The last light of the setting sun shone golden on the whitewashed walls of the King’s Head at Dover; after the storm, the sea air was fresh and clean-smelling.

The Honourable Lucius Everett lounged in the doorway of the inn, half-listening to the buzz of conversation in the coffee room behind him. A high-pitched voice rang out complainingly above the hubbub.

“‘Pon rep, my lord, I was forced to leave half my gowns behind in Paris, such was our hurry. All the latest French modes! Do not tell me I shall find anything to equal them in London.”

Mr Everett’s lip curled. It was not the first time he had heard that lament. England at war again, and all the silly chit cared about was her Parisian fashions! Not that she differed in that from the majority of her class, both male and female, he thought with scorn.

Much my lady would have cared for his opinion! A single glance in the passageway had classified Mr Everett as a nobody.

He was a gentleman of some thirty summers, slightly above the average in height and well built, but plainly dressed in a slate-coloured frock coat. Though his thick brown hair was cut short and unpowdered, it was brushed back from his forehead in a far from modish manner. His features were nothing out of the ordinary; certainly no one would have described him as handsome. Yet a perceptive observer might have noticed a clear lucidity to his gaze, an unusual, almost piercing quality, and the stern line of his mouth spoke of determination and purpose.

The innkeeper stepped out for a breath of air, wiping his round, shiny red face with a spotted handkerchief.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “It’s right glad I am the high quality generally patronises the Ship, for we ain’t set up to cope with their whims and crotchets and it’s no good pretending we are. Still, that’s the last of ‘em running from Boney. We’ll soon be back to business as usual, for they’ll be on their way to London soon as I can get enough carriages to take ‘em. You’ve dined, Mr Everett?”

“Not yet, Colby. I’ll wait till the crush is gone.”

“Right you are, sir. I’ll warn the wife to set aside some mutton pasties and a dish of mushrooms, for we don’t want our regulars complaining of poor service.”

“In that case, send Baxter to bring me a mug of ale!”

“Mr Baxter is a guest here just like you are sir. I’ll fetch it myself.”

The stout landlord hurried away. His place was taken by three fashionable bucks. Mr Everett moved aside to give them space, and they stood there on the threshold, blocking the doorway, discussing the shocking lack of entertainment to be found in Dover.

They had just decided that a game of hazard in their private parlour offered the best chance of amusement, when a hackney pulled through the archway into the courtyard. As it drew to a halt, a pale-faced youth jumped out, steadied himself against the carriage, and addressed the group at the door.

“Sirs, pray tell me, is there a room available here?”

The dandies turned to stare. One of them raised a quizzing glass to examine the lad’s scruffy clothing. None deigned answer; they resumed their conversation.

Mr Everett stepped out of the shadow.

“I fear the inn is full,” he said. “Have you tried elsewhere?”

“Yes, everywhere.” The boy sounded exhausted and desperate. “My sister is hurt. She can go no further. What am I to do?”

From the carriage came a low, sweet voice. “Gerard, perhaps there is a corner where I might sit for a while. Let us go in and ask.” A wavering figure appeared, dressed in grey breeches, white shirt and blue jacket. “Help me down, I can walk.”

“Gabrielle, no!”

“Your sister, you said?”

“Yes sir. We thought it safer for her to dress so.”

Mr Everett noticed a red stain on the jacket. He sprang forward as the girl crumpled, and caught her in his arms. Her brother seemed dazed, and looked to be in not much better case.

“Gabrielle. . . Sir, let me take her.

“Hoy!” interrupted the jarvey. “What about me fare?”

“Do you pay the driver,” directed Mr Everett, “and I shall carry her in. You have money?”

“Oh, yes, sir, but Gabrielle . . . I . . . oh, very well. Thank you.”

Mr Everett, his face expressing none of the curiosity he felt, shifted his burden into a more comfortable position and turned to find the landlord awaiting him, a mug of ale in one hand, the other planted on his solid hip.

“We haven’t got room, Mr Everett, and well you knows it. Partickly not for the likes o’ these.”

“They may have my chamber, Colby, and I shall answer for them. If I am not mistaken, they are just escaped from France like most of your other guests.”

“Oh, in that case, sir, if you say so. You’ll want your dinner sent up?”

“We may need a doctor, not dinner. This child is injured and I do not know how badly.”

“I am not a child,” said Gabrielle, faintly but indignantly. “Pray put me down, sir. I am quite able to walk.”

“No, you are not, Gaby. I am scarce able to walk myself and I have no bullet hole in the ribs.” Gerard’s gait as he approached the group was as unsteady as if the deck still heaved beneath his feet.

“That is because you were so stupidly seasick. And don’t call me Gaby!”

“A bullet hole, is it? No wonder you are bleeding all over my coat,” said Mr Everett grimly, and strode into the inn, the girl in his arms. “You’ll do no more walking till it’s been seen to, if then. Colby, send for the surgeon at once, and have Baxter come to my room, if you please.”

Dimly lit by a single candle, the low-ceilinged chamber to which he carried Gabrielle was nearly filled by a huge, old-fashioned fourposter bed of dark oak. He laid her gently on the patchwork counterpane, and placed a pillow under her shoulder so that she lay half on her uninjured side. Gerard sank into a chair.

“Why do I feel as bad on dry land as I did on the boat?” he groaned.

“It is often so, I believe,” said Mr Everett unsympathetically. “I suppose you are too ill to aid your sister. I must cut away her clothing around the wound, for the blood is drying and it will stick. At least you can act as chaperon.”

A small, balding man, neatly dressed in black, slipped into the room.

“Sir?”

“Baxter, I need plenty of light and a pair of scissors.”

“Sir.”

The servant lit a branch of candles on the mantelpiece and another on the dressing-table crammed into a corner between bed and tiny window. The light revealed his lugubrious face, jowled like a bloodhound. He opened a leather box on the dressing-table and offered it to his master.

“Scissors, sir.”

“Thank you. That is not enough light. Is there no lamp in here?”

Baxter bent down and pulled an oil lamp from beneath Gerard’s chair. He lit the wick at a candle flame and moved to hold it over the bed. As he looked down at Gabrielle, his face grew gloomier.

Gerard stood up and leaned against the nearest bedpost. Mr Everett had pulled back Gabrielle’s jacket and was cutting away the shirt, revealing a huge purple bruise. He looked up at her brother, saw his sweat-beaded forehead and white lips.

“Sit down, lad,” he said. “It will not help Miss Gabrielle if you pass out on us. Baxter, I need warm water and a clean cloth.”

“Sir.” The servant departed as silently as he had come.

Mr Everett sat on the edge of the bed and studied Gabrielle’s face. Beneath the unladylike tan it was pallid, and a tiny frown of pain contracted her eyebrows. Her hacked-off curls were draggled and stiff from the salt sea air. He leaned forward to loosen her none-too-clean neck-cloth, and she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything. You are very kind to come to the rescue of perfect strangers.”

For a moment he gazed at her unsmiling, then his stern mouth softened, giving his expression a curious vulnerability.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Luke Everett. I must assure you that I do not make a practice of removing the clothing from young ladies to whom I have not been presented in form.”

Her eyes danced. “Nor I of being carried into unfamiliar bedchambers by gentlemen with whom I am unacquainted. I am Gabrielle Darcy, sir, and this poor suffering soul is my brother Gerard.”

Gerard looked up, gave a sickly grin, and returned to the contemplation of his own misery.

“If I might make a suggestion, Miss Darcy, I should not be too free with your name. It might prove embarrassing at some future moment, considering the—ah—circumstances of your arrival.”

“You refer to my dress, I take it. I expect you are right. We are but now come from France, Mr Everett, and have had such adventures on the way!”

“The evidence of that is plain before me, ma’am. Ah, Baxter, bring the bowl here, if you please. You see the fabric is stuck and I must soak it off. Miss Darcy, I fear this may be painful.”

“Merely breathing is painful, sir. Pray don’t mind me.”

He took her hand and squeezed it, then wet the cloth and laid it on her side. After several applications, he began to ease off the patch of her shirt he had cut loose. Gabrielle squeaked.

He stopped at once. Her eyes were screwed shut, her fists clenched, but she murmured, “Go on. Finish it.”

The rest came off more easily. Mr Everett looked at the wound and shook his head.

“It appears to be considerably swollen. I fear the bullet may still be there. Where the devil is that doctor? Baxter, go and make sure Colby sent for him.”

Before the servant could go about his errand, there was a knock at the door and it was flung open. Framed in the doorway stood a huge woman, mop cap askew, wheezily trying to catch her breath. Her triple chin shook with the effort. Behind her, a tall, thin man tried in vain to push around her.

“You should stay in the kitchen, Mrs Colby, you should stay in the kitchen,” he admonished. “Climbing stairs is excessively bad for you. Let me pass, I say, let me pass.”

The innkeeper’s wife recovered enough to gaze around the room.

“What’s all this carryin’ on then, Mr Everett?” she demanded breathlessly. “I runs a respectable house, I does.”

“Get on with you, woman, you have known me for years. Do you still harbour doubts about my respectability?”

“Nay, sir, but I hear there be a young woman in here without an abigail, and I cannot spare a chambermaid to sit with her, the house being so full and all.”

“The young lady’s brother is here; you need not fear for her reputation. But for her life, perhaps, if your husband has not sent for a doctor.”

“Which he has done. Let be, doctor! Push, push, push till I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. I’m moving quick as I can.”

Apparently deciding the chamber was already too full, Mrs Colby lumbered backwards into the passage and the tall, thin man darted in.

“Dr Hargreaves, sir, Dr Hargreaves. What seems to be the problem now? Aha, the young lady has been shot, has she? She’s been shot?” He put down his green cloth bag on the foot of the bed and peered at Gabrielle’s side. “Nasty,” he decided, “nasty. Bullet’s still in there, don’t you know, still in there. Have to get it out or it won’t heal properly, get infected, finis, as you might say.”

Gabrielle’s eyes flew to Mr Everett’s face. He took her hand and held it in a comforting grasp as the doctor fumbled in his bag. Gerard staggered to his feet.

“What are you going to do?” he asked belligerently.

“Have to cut it out, have to cut it out. Looks to be close to the lung, very dangerous, oh very dangerous. The lady must keep very still while I work. There’s two ways to do it, don’t you know. We can hit her on the head or we can give her half a pint of brandy and hold her. I’ll need help, I say, I’ll need help.”

Gabrielle clutched Mr Everett’s hand convulsively.

“Please, no!” she gasped.

He sat down on the bed and looked into her eyes with his compelling gaze.

“He’s right. But if you are unused to spirits, as I hope is the case, a glass of warm wine should be enough to deaden the pain somewhat. I take it you had rather that than be hit on the head, as the good doctor so uncouthly put it?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

She managed to smile. “Yes, of course. Please, you will stay?”

He smoothed her hair back from her brow. “Indeed I shall. You do not think I should permit anyone else to help you keep still? Except your brother, if he is up to it.”

“I can manage perfectly well,” said Gerard with dignity. “The floor is not moving near as much as it was.”

“Need both of you, gentlemen, both of you. One at the head and one at the feet.” Dr Hargreaves was removing from his bag a series of evil-looking instruments. At least they were clean and unrusted.

“Baxter, go and fetch a mug of mulled wine for Miss Darcy. And hurry, man. Anticipation is half the agony.”

“Not in this case,” muttered the doctor forebodingly. “Not in this case. I shall need plenty of hot water, too, and ask Mrs Colby for a couple of old sheets. Old sheets, I say.”

* * * *

When Gabrielle woke in the morning, Gerard was stretched out beside her, fully dressed and snoring slightly. The multicoloured counterpane had been folded back over her as a coverlet. On her other side, Mr Everett slumped in a hardbacked chair, his head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed.

She regarded him with interest. His face relaxed, he seemed considerably younger than she had thought. There was a hint of melancholy about his mouth, a sadness of lost hopes, perhaps. Otherwise he looked like a plain country gentleman, very ordinary in his crumpled, slept-in clothes.