Poetry and Perfection 13

 sorry to be tardy, I was writing some Cobra last night, I'm close to a wrap. 

 

Chapter 13

 

It was late in the afternoon by the time Buckden was reached; and Kitty disembarked stiffly, wishing a safe journey and good fortune to Mr. Cocksedge, most warmly for his kindness.

The ‘George’ inn was a massive structure, the frontage on the main road a three-storey red brick edifice, the older parts of it evident within the yard, as the common timber-framed type of structure with rooms opening onto the yard. Kitty went to bespeak herself a room.

“Does the mail go through here overnight?” she asked,

“Yes, we’re a receiving house, if you want to send a letter.”

“Oh, how fortunate,” said Kitty.

She wrote a brief note.

Dear Papa and Mama,

I got on the wrong coach and I am in Buckden, and will hope to get on a coach on the morrow.  I shot that horrid fellow who tried to abduct me.  I have no idea if I hurt him or killed him, but it stopped him trying to chase me, in any case. I think that replacing E. was a bad move, but in any case, I have at least enough money to get home and some over for emergencies. I am sorry to worry everyone.

Your loving Kit.       

She sealed it with a wafer, left it in the box of mail, and went in search of sustenance.

 

 

Hugo was frustrated. He had to nurse his team, not having horses stabled along the Great North Road, as the stagecoach companies might do.  He and Stephen had started out some two hours behind Kitty, but had lost some time bandying words with Haselbraid, and having to see to Stephen when the fool boy finally admitted to having been shot. No, he had admitted it fairly quickly, and it had been as well that he had not shown he was wounded in front of Haselbraid. He had muttered something about feeling it pluck his sleeve and had not realised that it had nicked him deeply enough to bleed enough to cause him trouble. The girl had spent some time in Hatfield, and it transpired that he had only just missed her. But then, the leader of his tandem pair threw a shoe, and he had to walk the team until he found a smithy. Not that the rest to their pace did them any harm.  He stopped at Baldock, and found he was an hour behind the Non-Pareil, but that there was no young man answering Kitty’s description who had disembarked. Why on earth had she not got off at the first stage after realising her mistake? Or had she?

Hugo lost more time, asking around, but came upon a stable hand who said that the boy had slept right through the change of horses.

And that explained why she had not realised her mistake and had not got off.

Hopefully she would be awake in time to wake up and get off to stay the night at the next stage, which he ascertained would be at Buckden, a village distinguished by having the Bishopric of the Bishops of Lincoln within its borders.

If only the little goose did not try to return on some overnight conveyance.

 

 

Kitty had no intention of trying to return overnight, which is why she had sent a letter. She needed a good night’s sleep, without any distraction, so she did not make any foolish mistakes on the morrow, when she was fresh.  She took a modest room overlooking the side road, less prestigious than in the new brick wing, but quieter than a room opening onto a balcony opening onto the stable yard. She elected to eat in the public room, rather than pay for a private room; she was not sure how far her money would stretch if she was not frugal. Unforeseen circumstances had a bad habit of being… well, unforeseen.  Kitty was not especially enjoying this adventure, and was metaphorically kicking herself for taking the wrong coach. Had she not done so, she would have been home long since, any scolding would be over, and she would be having nursery tea.

She fought back tears, and addressed herself to her meal, eating neatly and with small mouthfuls as she had always been taught.

A coarse laugh caught her attention.

“Look at the little molly eating like a young lady. Hey, boy, do you dress up as a girl to play Ganymede?”

Kitty frowned.

“I am sorry, sir, I hear your words but many of them make no sense to me,” she said.

“You offend me,” said the coarse one, a man of ruddy complexion.

“Indeed? I am not sure how, but I am sorry for it,” said Kitty.

“Sorry for it!” the red faced man almost spat. “You little coward, ‘sorry’ you say, but you’re still mimsy-mannered, like all mollies, and your kind offend me.”

“I don’t understand what ‘molly’ means other than as a pet name for the female name, ‘Mary,’” said Kitty.

The man sneered.

“Are you telling me a fancy-mannered little prettyboy like you isn’t being used in the arse by another man?” he demanded.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” said Kitty. “My parents taught me my manners, because there are standards expected of a gentleman. I don’t know why it is offensive to you; I was taught that eating loudly and with large mouthfuls was offensive, but I wasn’t going to mention that you eat like a hog in a bucket of swill, because I am too well brought up and such comments would be rude and uncalled for.”

“You stand up and say that!” said the loud man.

“Not likely; you’re three times my size, and fully grown and with adult strength,” said Kitty. “It’s not cowardly not to be an idiot, and I suspect you are drunk and spoiling for a fight. Now get out of my face, and hold your nasty tongue.”

The others eating in the public room were keeping very quiet; nobody wanted to antagonise a big, violent man, and if the boy was stupid enough to shoot off his mouth, most people were relieved that the youth drew attention, not them. Kitty tried to ignore the big man; but he was not satisfied.

Kitty was suddenly jerked out of her seat by the red faced man, and found that her face was level with his chest.  She brought her knee up sharply, and was rewarded by a cry of pain.

“You little twat! I’m going to kill you!” he roared, and started belabouring Kitty, who went down in short order.

And then the loud man was pulled away from her, and as she lost consciousness, she thought she heard Hugo Bottringham’s voice.

“Oh, very brave, a grown man beating a stripling not yet out of school!”

 

 

Hugo felt he was catching up as he came into Buckden.  He drove into the ‘George’ yard, leaving his team with the ostlers, and went inside to ask questions.

What he saw was some red faced lout pulling Kitty out of her seat, and getting her knee in his cods for his pains. And then he roared that he was going to kill her, and Hugo was moving with deceptive speed, his grace hiding just how fast he could move.  He grabbed the bully’s shoulder.

“Oh, very brave, a grown man beating a stripling not yet out of school!” he sneered.

“Oh, you’re the molly using the little ladyboy, are you?” demanded the oaf.

Hugo blinked.

“Well, it’s the first time anyone has suggested such a thing,” he said. “Any mistress I have had would laugh at you. What’s your beef with the child?”

“He’s mimsy mannered! He’s one of them, and so are you!” roared the intemperate man.

Hugo sighed.

He had friends whom he was sure supped from a different cup, as one might say, which was none of his business; but some people were intolerant. The man had plainly seen something of the feminine in Kitty; maybe even found himself aroused by it, and decided to take out his fear of the love that dares not speak its name on the child. How foolish.

And the rumour had to be quashed, lest Hugo found himself on trial for his life if anyone believed it.

He comprehensively beat up the loud man, who was bigger than he was, because men of his stamp understand only violence, and respond only to the grossest kind of masculinity.

And having knocked the fool out, he knelt by Kitty.

“That murdering oaf has hurt the child badly,” he said, coldly. “And not one of you intervened to help a gently born lad who took the wrong coach by accident and ended up where his father had to send me running after him to retrieve him. I hope you are ashamed of yourselves! Ale draper! Where is the boy’s room? Put me in the adjacent room, and if there is none… no, the hell with it, two of your best rooms and have the boy’s luggage brought to the new one. Look lively, now!  And pray that he survives that pounding or I’ll have you had up as an accessory for not keeping an orderly house. And have that fellow locked up by the constable!” He picked up Kitty, and permitted the stuttering, discommoded innkeeper to lead the way to one of his best rooms, at the front upstairs in the brick-built part of the hotel.

“I’ll want hot water, clean strips of linen as bandages, comfrey, Epsom salts, and any other balms you have,” said Hugo, authoritatively.  He laid Kitty down gently on the bed. “You Worthingtons! I never knew anyone with such a propensity for getting into trouble!”

 

 

“Hugo?” Kitty surfaced. “No, ’m sorry, it’s easy to forget you aren’t a person like us because Sophie and Elvira name you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hugo, unravelling that rather incoherent explanation for a social solecism. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I feel as if I’ve been run over by a horse,” said Kitty. “Hurts to breathe.”

“The hell!” said Hugo. “That means I’m going to have to undress you to get at your ribs and bandage them in case he broke any. I’m sorry.”

“I feel too ill to be embarrassed. I still don’t understand what was wrong that made him attack me.”

“He was drunk and looking for someone to pick on,” said Hugo, dismissively. “That rib is cracked, I think, but nothing seems spongy enough to be a serious break.  You may be concussed.”

“My head hurts.”

“It will do; you have a massive bruise,” said Hugo. “You’re stuck here for several days, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, no! I wrote to Mama and Papa and said I would get a coach tomorrow!”

“I’ll have to write them another letter, then, and maybe I can pay a boy to ride into London to take it,” said Hugo. “Stephen is laid up in South Mims from where Haselbraid accidentally shot him – it doesn’t seem bad, but I had to come on alone.” He was stripping her efficiently, used to doing so for Sophie, and trying not to notice as he undid the binding on her breasts to examine her ribs that she had pert little breasrs whose nipples extended in the cooler air.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry, and poor Stephen! That man is a menace,” said Kitty. “But I did not want him grabbing Elvira, and I thought if he was already gone with the wrong one, he couldn’t seize her off the pavement.”

“Oh! Now that begins to make more sense, if you feared he would do that,” said Hugo. “I had wondered if it was at least partly for a lark.”

“Well, I was planning on making him look stupid and that would be a lark, but he’s actually rather scary,” said Kitty. “It feels much better tied up tight like that, I can breathe better.”

“I’ll put a kettle on the fire for you to help, as steam does, and prop you up a bit, too,” said Hugo. “Sophie used to have trouble breathing, and we fought off pneumonia, so I know what to do.”

“That is useful,” murmured Kitty, who was feeling sleepy.

“I’ll look in on you from time to time,” said Hugo, leaving her to sleep.

He went to write a letter.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Worthington,

You will think I have done very badly in caring for your children, and I hope and pray that you will not hold it against Elvira and Sophie, and will perhaps have them both to stay with you.

Stephen and I ran into Haselbraid, who had been shot, and lightly wounded by Miss Worthington. Unfortunately, he shot wildly, and caught Stephen in the arm. I left him with the vicar in South Mimms; I imagine he will be back on his feet quite quickly.

Miss Worthington had taken, quite understandably, under the circumstances, the wrong coach to return to London, and moreover slept through the first stage. We are in Buckden, and I arrived just as some drunken oaf was trying to pick a quarrel with a young boy, as he saw Miss Worthington, and he has cracked one of her ribs and knocked her out. You may be sure I dealt with him, but I dare not permit anyone else to nurse her, or the secret is out that she is dressed as a boy. Naturally, I will be prepared to marry her, having compromised her so thoroughly.  I will send you bulletins by the regular mail, which, alas, has gone for the evening. I cannot think of any other honourable course to take, and naturally, if Miss Worthington wants a marriage of convenience, I will comply with her wishes. If I had not thrown a shoe on the way, I might have been there before that oaf started on her; but it does no good to dwell on ‘if’ and ‘but.’

I remain,

Your most obed’t servant,

Hugo Bottringham.