the marquis's memory 19

 

Chapter 19

 

Pip and Geoffrey slept through the excitement in the village, and Geoffrey woke up to find that Pip’s hand had invaded his trouser-fall, and was hanging on to somewhere usually considered rather personal, like a drowning man to a lifeline. His own left hand was clasping her buttock underneath her, and the right, cupping her breast on the top. Geoffrey immediately shifted his own grip, and tried, unsuccessfully, to gently pry her fingers loose, but she only made grumpy noises, and clung tighter.

Not wishing this manifestation to go from remarkably pleasant into painful, Geoffrey gave up the unequal effort, and held Pip close, trying not to let his hands stray in such an unruly fashion again.

 

oOoOo

 

Simon drove south, as fast as he dared on the road, and was horrified to see a huddled figure at the side of the road, in white muslin, and with her usually carefully confined brown curls all awry and spread out across the verge.  He promptly called on the team to halt, reining them in, as James had anticipated that any pursuer must do, treating Effie as wolf-meat.

Simon was out of the curricle in a bound, and kneeling at the side of the woman who had become everything to him. Her neck was not at that awful angle which indicated a break, but she appeared to be unconscious.

“Effie! My darling! Don’t be dead!” cried Simon.

Effie’s eyelids fluttered.

“Oh, Simon!” she breathed. “I am so glad to see you! I am afraid I swooned. I am quite banged about but I do not think anything is broken.”

“Well, that’s a relief, anyway,” said Simon “Can you sit up?”

“Let me have your arm, and get me up into your gig; I will recover whilst you drive on,” said Effie, firmly.

“Really? You don’t want me to drive you home?” asked Simon.

“I want to find out what he’s done with Philippa and the marquis,” said Effie, grimly. “And there’s one road all the way to Ipswich, so we should overtake him. Once you’ve knocked him down a few times, I wager he’ll talk.  Though,” she hesitated, “He said he thought she might have got on the back of his curricle and hung on, and must have been thrown off when he speeded up.”

“That’s a bit of a thin story; what young lady is likely to do that?” scoffed Simon.

“You’re forgetting, Simon! Philippa is Pip, and three parts boy,”

“Of course she is!” exclaimed Simon. “Yes, it would be like her. But to hold on requires a lot of strength.  But we can keep an eye out for her, at the side of the road….”

“Or her body. Yes, it did occur to me,” said Effie. “I was thrown out at a relatively slow pace. Someone being slung off at speed, on a corner….”

“Your eyes seeing if you can see her red hair will be useful, whilst I concentrate on overtaking him. I have no doubt we shall overtake him before we get to Woolveston.”

They drove on, at a spanking pace, on the road to Ipswich, but saw no sign of the fugitive. Nor did Effie see any signs of a crumpled body with red hair.

They got as far as Freston, with its peculiar Elizabethan tower overlooking the Orwell. Here the road divided, with a road to the Stour side of the peninsula.

“He must have drawn off the road somewhere and gave us the slip,” said Simon. “I know I would have overtaken him by now.  I don’t think it’s worth going any further.”

“No, nor do I,” said Effie.  “Of course, if Pip was hurt, someone might have taken her up to care for.”

“And all we can do is to wait for rumour,” said Simon, turning the team around the convenient triangle where the roads met. They drove back in melancholy silence, past the ugly modern building which was Woolverston Hall, through Chelmondiston, with its three inns, and then back to the Haddistons.

Simon was cheered as a hero.

“I lost the dirty little creature, though,” said Simon. “He threw Miss Congreve out of the curricle, and we pursued him half way to Ipswich, but if these nags could not catch him, his horse must have taken wings and flown away, for I cannot imagine where he might have gone.”

Effie was well hugged by Alethea, who had been out of her mind with worry; and the three were provided with a substantial nuncheon by Simeon Pigeon, to help them overcome the horrors of iniquity of the man calling himself Marks.

 

There was a very good reason why Simon had not overtaken James James.  Simon had made the simple, but reasonable, mistake of assuming that his quarry would seek to escape, and hence, turn right, towards the mainland.  James had turned left, to where he had last seen Geoffrey, with intention of impersonating the marquis that evening to kill Simon, and take Geoffrey’s place.

It was a nuisance having to bring his plans forward, but it would have to be done.

He knew that there was a girl who was missing who was the marquis’s ward.  Well, doubtless it would be believable to say that the chit did not like his plans for her, and had fled to Gretna. Or, he could blame Endicott; once he was dead, he could refute nothing. He was courting the Congreve woman but had been overcome by lust for the marquis’s ward and had violated her and then had to do away with her.  Oho, it played in nicely with his plans, because he could then have it seem that he, as Marquis, had chased Endicott and both curricles overturned each other.  Endicott died, and he… bruised and battered… lived. And at least he had not removed the box of Geoffrey’s clothes from his own curricle. He had a man lined up to mark up his face, a man named Moyse, who could be bought with strong liquor, or provoked in his cups with insults, and less likely to speak about that.

Mulling over his plans, James came to the end of his drive, and went into the hut where he had left Geoffrey.

It was with deep shock that he observed that his prisoner was no longer there.  He checked the next hut, in case he had got it wrong, but that was also empty of any prisoner. He went back to the first, and saw short lengths of cut rope on the floor, where Pip had sawed through the rope.

The bird had flown.

James swore, pungently. He felt in his dash for a pistol he kept there, and trudged over the rise to the fishermen’s cottages proper, set back from the exigencies of wind, wave, and weather. He kicked open the door of the first, snarling at the family, demanding to know where his prisoner was.

It is possible that the simple fisherfolk might have considered fighting a sailor or a soldier, or even a gentleman; but being faced by a clergyman and the seeming wrath of God, they meekly denied, and permitted James to search. Finally one small boy piped up that there had been a red-haired girl who took Matt Nunn’s boat with some sort of big bundle, and she rowed off.

James was much relieved.

The bundle was presumably the marquis, who had presumably died of the rough treatment, and the girl would doubtless drown, because a girl could scarcely be expected to row anywhere much, let alone five miles or more to the Haddingtons. Yes, both were doubtless being eaten by lobsters at the moment. If they had made it back to Haddington, the damned villagers would have been all over them like smallpox.

Well, that made his life both easier, and harder.

He must move fast and surely.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Geoffrey woke again with a full bladder and a headache. Pip had let go of him, and, judging by her moving back to the bed from the makeshift curtain in the corner, had had needs as pressing, to make her let go of him. Geoffrey painfully negotiated his way to the piss pot in the corner, and used it.

“I need water,” he said, his voice not seeming to belong to him.

Pip, naked as the day she was born, found him a canteen.

“Sweetness, I have compromised you,” said Geoffrey.

“I think I compromised you first; I woke up holding you,” said Pip, blushing. “I rather liked it, but I hope I did not annoy you.”

“I rather liked it, too,” said Geoffrey. “I want to marry you, but I wanted to give you a chance to meet other people.”

“We’ve rescued each other too often to be wanting anyone else,” said Pip. “Excuse me; I want to see if my clothes are dry.” She went out, and came back, presently, wearing her shift, and carrying her stained gown, stockings, and brogues.

“You are beautiful,” said Geoffrey.

Pip sniggered

“If you think so when I am bedraggled like this, you do love me,” she said.

“I do,” said Geoffrey. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It was a safe haven I could reach,” said Pip. “And I was afraid that not-vicar would kill me if he saw me.  You said his name was James, and that you recognised him; do you remember?”

Geoffrey frowned in thought.

“I… yes, there was something about him, made me think of my mother’s favourite footman,” he said. “He bears a superficial resemblance to my father and to me, but as far as I am aware, he is no connection at all. He’s spent years trying to learn my mannerisms and to look more like me; I suppose he reckons he can get more vails if seeming to be a left-hand member of the family. Unless he’s been planning to replace me for a very long time. Didn’t you say he said he was going to do so?”

“That seemed to be his plan,” said Pip. “Did you think we ought to tell Effie that I’m not dead, or run away with the gypsies or any other sort of thing she’s likely to worry about?”

“Probably, but only if we can find out how safe it is,” said Geoffrey.

“I hid the clothes you gave me as Pip, the boy, here,” said Pip. “If I muddy my hair and put on a hat, I can go up to the inn by the passage and find out how things are.”

“Are you sure? I’m still fuddle-headed after that blow to the head, and I’m not sure I can make it.”

“I don’t want him seeing either of us,” said Pip. “He scares me.”

“If he thought he knew you knew his identity, or had rescued me, I wouldn’t put it past him to kill you,” said Geoffrey.

“He whipped poor Sarey for being in the way,” said Pip, grimly. “You didn’t, when you had your accident, and that was when you were in a temper.”

“I don’t, in general, take out my temper on those who are not responsible for provoking it, though I may be terse or sarcastic to fatuous comments,” said Geoffrey. “I have a horrible temper, my love.”

“I expect if I put my hands in your trouser fall and interested another part of you, it would dissipate,” said Pip.

Geoffrey gave a bark of laughter.

“Yes, very likely!” he said. “I’ve some money on me, if you leave some and bring us back something to eat and drink, I’d doubtless feel a lot better.”

Pip nodded.

She winced a few times, putting on her male attire.

“Did that devil hurt you?” asked Geoffrey, sharply.

“I got a bit rattled on the back of his curricle, and I fell off a barrel when I was cutting you down,” said Pip. “And it was a long row back.”

“Curricle? Back? Back from where?” asked Geoffrey. “We were in a boat! Why were we in a boat?”

“He took you to Shotley Point,” said Pip.

“And you rowed all the way back from there? You are amazing!” said Geoffrey.

Pip blushed.

“I didn’t see any other way of getting home,” she said. “You weren’t in a fit state to walk six miles. Well, to be honest, you weren’t in a fit state to walk six yards. I’m still not sure how we made it from the boat to my sty.”

“Because you are a heroine,” said Geoffrey. “I want to put up the banns as soon as all this is over.”

“I’d be your mistress, if you wanted,” said Pip.

“And I want to marry you,” said Geoffrey. “Go now, before I pull you back into bed to try to convince you how much I want you.”

Pip’s belly gurgled.

“After we’ve eaten,” she said, and slipped out of the sty, and down to the tunnel under the staithe, finding some mud on the way to hide her effulgent locks.

 

the marquis's memory 18 cliffie bonus

 

Chapter 18

 

Effie woke up again at the normal time, and went to check her niece and her charge were awake. She frowned to see the bedclothes tumbled off Pip’s bed, any old how, and the window wide open. And the she remembered what she thought had been a crazy dream about the new vicar… no, the other clergyman… allegedly whipping Sarey and driving towards the river.

Effie ran down to the sty, where Sarey was irritably trying to shift the wedged gate, and had an unmistakeable welt on her back.

“Dear God!” whispered Effie, in unformed, but still heartfelt, prayer.

“Effie?” Alethea joined her.

“Philippa woke me saying the Reverend Marks had whipped Sarey, and was going down to the river,” said Effie. “And Sarey has been whipped and I can’t see Philippa.”

“I’ll check she isn’t hobnobbing with the Murfitts,” said Alethea.

Not finding Pip in the kitchen, she returned.

“Will you run down to Gaffer Keeble’s, and ask him to go with you to the shore?” said Effie. “I’m going to the Priory.”

 

Effie found Simon Endicott breakfasting when she got to the priory.

“I need to see the marquis,” she said.

“That sounds urgent,” said Simon.

“Oh, Simon! I am worried,” said Effie, and told him everything.

Simon frowned.

“Jeffy goes down to the shore at dawn to paint, and comes back to go back to bed for a few hours,” he said. “I’ll go heave him out of bed; maybe he saw something.”

He returned, grimly, several minutes later.

“He’s not returned from his painting trip,” he said. “No commonplace book, and he’s wearing his messing-about-in-the-country clothes. If there hadn’t been the matter of that cleric and him hurting your sow, I’d be inclined to think he met up with Pip coming back up the lane, and they went off for an illicit breakfast and a bit of courting together. You did know he’s sweet on Pip?”

“I recognised that she has a tendre for him, and hoped she would not get hurt; if it is mutual, that is less of a worry,” said Effie. “Could it be that simple, and Reverent Marks and his cruelty merely incidental?”

“It would be comforting to think so, but there’s something about that clergyman which makes me want to do violence to him, and I swear he reminds me of someone,” said Simon. “You and Alethea have breakfast; I’ll wander over to the Running Buck and see if I can’t get anything out of the fellow.”

Effie nodded; it was the wisest course to follow.

When she got back to her cottage, Alethea had retrieved Geoffrey’s easel and commonplace book and paints.

“He was interrupted; it was all tumbled over, and his paint-water spilled,” said Alethea.

“Oh, dear!” said Effie. “How I will swallow breakfast, I do not know.”

“You must fortify yourself, if we are to search for Pip and the marquis,” said Alethea.

 

oOoOo

 

Simon found James discussing a meal of buttered eggs on toast in the bar.

“All right, you, where is he?” he demanded. “Indeed, where are they?”

“I beg your pardon?” said James. “Where is who?”

“You ain’t a clergyman, even one from yeoman stock,” said Simon, with scorn. “’Where is who’ you ask – anyone of the least education knows it should be ‘Where is whom.’ You’re a fraud, and I think your whiskers are as false as your dog-collar.”

“Look here! You have no right to talk to me like that, accosting a man of the cloth, and insulting me! You must be inebriated. And I do not know whom you are speaking about.”

“Betrayed again; that one should be ‘who’ unless couched properly as ‘of whom you are speaking,’” said Simon savagely. “And you know very well of whom I am speaking- Geoffrey Calver, Marquis Calver.”

“Why on earth should you think I know anything about the whereabouts of the marquis? Am I my brother’s keeper?” demanded James, who vaguely recalled such a text.

“It won’t wash,” said Simon. “You were seen driving down Sow’s Lane, and whipping Sarey the sow, and Miss Congreve will be suing you for that. And that’s where Geoffrey goes in the morning to paint. So, I ask you again, where is Geoffrey, and where is Miss Seward, who saw you hitting Sarey, and alerted Miss Congreve, and went out to physic the sow and, presumably to give you the sharp edge of her tongue?”

James paled.

He had seen no little girl, and the idea of being accused of being a child-spoiler and in spiriting her away was actually frightening. People’s feelings ran high about that sort of thing.

“I did not see the child at all,” he said. “I… I saw the marquis painting. I went for a drive because… because I had had a bad dream. If anyone knows where the little girl is, it is him.”

“He,” corrected Simon. “I don’t think I believe you, but I can’t disprove your story.”

James glared at Simon. He would enjoy breaking his neck once he had tortured the marquis into telling him everything.

 

oOoOo

 

Pip took up the oars, and embarked upon the row of her life. It was not so far by water as it was by land, and she had the assistance of the tide coming in as well, which was quite a significant tide race. Pip was well aware that it was not as fast as in the Stour, the other side of the Shotley Peninsula, because she had heard people say so, but it seemed to be very helpful to her. She bent her back to the stroke, grateful that the movement of her back and shoulders did not significantly hurt where she had banged her shoulder, and wincing over her much-abused knees having to flex as she bent her body to the long, efficient strokes with the sweeps. The river would flow slightly faster this side than the other, being an outside bend, but of course, until the tide was in full race, she must also contend with the current of the river.  And as it came in, she must drift to her right, to move into the shallows as they formed, as close to the bank as she might.

Forward… dip… pull… lift… forward… dip… pull… lift. In a nightmare Pip kept rowing, this race’s prize far more precious than doing well in the regatta. Geoffrey had drifted off to sleep, or lapsed back into unconsciousness, Pip was not sure which, and she could not afford to check which. Forward… dip… pull… lift… over and over. There was no time, there was no distance, there was only the rowing, the furthest distance Pip had ever rowed.  It was also, with the tidal assistance, the fastest she had ever been in a rowing boat, and it had a kind of exhilaration to it.  Pip knew that if she had been racing Bessie this day, she might have won, because the stakes were so much more.

It was hot, but she dared not rest, or stop for a drink. Not until they were back near the beach she knew so well. The sun beat down mercilessly, for she had not stopped to grab a bonnet, and would most likely have lost it on the back of the curricle, anyway, where it would have been in the way. 

And the banks were starting to look familiar. It would be some hours before the tide was fully in, but the staithe was there, thrusting out over the gleaming and treacherous sand, out into the water, and with a sob of relief, Pip pulled towards it. She rowed as far along it as the tide permitted, letting the keel ground, then leaping up the wooden structure to tie off the painter.

She leaped back down, and took a long drink. Her own, cold spring was calling to her, but she needed to wet her throat now, before it closed up on her. She emptied some over the top of her head to cool herself down.

“Geoffrey!” she shook him gently, and he shot up, seizing her painfully by the wrists.

“Pip! I’m sorry, I had such a nightmare…” he began.

“Not a nightmare! Real,” sobbed Pip. “But please, I want to get you safe.  It’s safe to stand under the staithe, it’s all stones, because of the smugglers’ passage. And if you can get as far as the passage, I’ll check if we can get to my sty.”

Geoffrey was groggy, but by the expedient of hanging on to the uprights of the staithe, he managed to get as far as the tunnel, and sat on the steps. Pip darted out, and checked the lie of the land, unaware that Gaffer Keeble had come to the mound of her sty to call for her not half an hour since, to tell her that the whole village was searching for her.  He had never been fooled by who she was supposed to be.

Finding the foreshore deserted, she first re-filled both canteens, and then collected Geoffrey, cajoling and bullying him through his painful steps into her secret way in, and thence into the quiet darkness of the sty.

“That feels better,” said Geoffrey.

“Good; you can lie down now,” said Pip. “I’m going to have to take my clothes off; I’m saturated, and though I was hot out there, I’m duddering with cold in here.”

“Take my jacket,” said Geoffrey. “Dear God! My shoulders…”

“Keep it on,” said Pip. “I’ll wrap myself in blankets; my clothes will soon dry outside in the gorse in the sun. He hung you up by the wrists, and it was the devil’s own job to get you down.”

Geoffrey gratefully let himself be talked into not stretching his tortured muscles, and presently Pip slipped into the bed beside him, wrapped in a blanket.

She clung to him.

“I thought I was going to lose you!” she whispered.

“But you rescued me, my brave darling,” said Geoffrey, wrapping his arms around her.

They both fell asleep, wrapped up together.

 

oOoOo

 

Effie walked into the Running Buck with Mrs. Murfitt’s solid figure at her back to give her countenance in the way neither of the maids would manage to do. She went up to James.

“I might forgive you for hurting my prize sow, if you will only tell me what you have done with Philippa Seward,” she said, with a calm she was not feeling.

“I don’t even know any Philippa Seward!” blustered James. “I did not see any children at all.”

“What has that got to do with it?” said Effie, blankly. “Miss Seward is eighteen, she is scarcely a child. Are you trying to deny kidnap of an underage heiress?”

James drained of colour.

That was even worse than angry locals over a child-spoiling; this was actionable by law, and with some potentially very nasty consequences.

“I never seen her!” he blurted out. “You shouldn’t keep hogs in the road, either, lady, it’s dangerous, and if your charge has gone missing, maybe I missed seeing her because I was so taken up with that damned sow.”

“You’re prevaricating, she was in my bedroom as you went past that way, telling me about you,” said Effie. “And the sow was shut up in her sty on your way back, with a salve on her poor back. I think you abducted the Marquis and killed Philippa because she saw you. Where did you hide the body?” she demanded.

“I did not!” squealed James. “I… if she and the marquis have both disappeared, maybe he abducted her!”

“Why would he need to abduct his own ward?” demanded Effie.

The mood in the inn was ugly; there were not many people in there, but all of them were on the side of the pretty girl, whoever she was.

“My dear Miss… I don’t know your name….”

“I am Miss Congreve,” said Effie. “Soon to be Mrs. Endicott.”

“Good God! You ain’t bracket-faced or butter-toothed at all!”

Effie slapped him.

“What my appearance has to do with it, is immaterial, but I find you offensive,” she said. “And I am certain you know something about Philippa Seward.”

“But I don’t! my Bible oath I ain’t never seen the girl!” yammered James. “I never met her, I never seen her, I never spoke to her, and I don’t even know what she looks like!”

“Well, your origins are revealed by your speech,” said Effie, scornfully. “You are no vicar, and I think you are here under the pay of the dowager marchioness to cause harm to the marquis. Pigeon! Take him in charge, and call the constable!”

Simeon Pigeon was not a fast moving man, but had started moving.

James jumped to his feet, and seized Effie by the throat. He produced a wicked-looking switch-blade.

“If any one of you does anyfink, I cuts her, see?” said James. “You, Pigeon! You come along, and tell your men to put up my curricle.”

Pigeon followed, unhappily, and gave the orders. His sons, who were his hands, equally unhappily harnessed the mare to the curricle.

Gaffer Keeble, meanwhile, who had gone to report that Miss Pip wasn’t in her sty, slithered out of the bar, and ran his halting way to the priory to report to Mr. Endicott that the false cleric was holding Miss Congreve hostage.

“The devil, you say!  I said that cleric was not what he appears,” said Simon, tossing a guinea to the Gaffer, who was spry enough to catch real money. “Your son’ll give you a heavy wet and second breakfast, I wager.” And he whirled away to harness his own team, changed his mind, and harnessed Geoffrey’s, which were harder to handle, but faster.

 

Effie was terrified. The bearded vicar, or whatever he was, kept a brutal hold on her wrist, and dragged her into his curricle, transferring the rein to the hand which held her wrist, his other hand on knife and whip both, as he slashed his mare brutally, making the poor beast leap and run.

“Oh, you do not need to do that to the poor thing!” cried Effie. “A crack of the whip over her head is sufficient, you need not actually whip her!”

“You shut your mouth, or we’ll see who gets whipped,” said James. The thought was suddenly exciting to him, and he wondered whether the overbearing marchioness could be broken by a little judicious whipping.  She had nobody to complain to now, as she was accounted mad, and so that doctor of hers would surely never believe it.

Well, it was to be contemplated when he was out of this danger, all because some stupid wench had disappeared.

He had a sudden wild thought. Had not the curricle lurched when he was about level with where that dratted sow had been? Could the wench have jumped on behind him? Well, she had fallen off long before he got to Shotley, likely when he picked up speed on the main road. He gave a coarse laugh.

“I just figured out what happened to the missing wench,” he said, jeeringly to Effie. “I think she jumped on the back of my curricle. I expect she fell off and broke her stupid neck.”

Effie screamed in rage, and tried to wrest the reins from him, and James twisted her arm, dropping the whip back in its socket, and brandishing the knife in her face, content that the horse should run on her own.

“Stubble it, you crazy mort,” said James, whose Bermondsley origins had chased out any other manners of speech which had overlaid it for so long. He poked the knife towards Effie’s eyes, and laughed when she flinched.

And he was coming up towards the main road, and he bodily lifted Effie and flung her from the carriage without stopping to see, since he did not care, if she lived or died.