alternative bride 16

 a bit on the drag, but I was writing on what should be the penultimate chapter.

Chapter 16

 

Gerard sat up in bed in the grey predawn light, in sudden concern, hearing stealthy footsteps. He bit back an oath as he knuckled his eyes automatically, and found the skin still tender.

The footsteps went past the door and creaked down the stairs, and Gerard laughed at himself. He had managed to frighten himself with the early rising of the landlord to be available to man the inn.

He turned over and turned his efforts into waking Jane in a way she would appreciate. Jane  mewed in startled pleasure, and responded happily.

“I thought we weren’t going to be noisy in an inn?” she said, later.

“Well, I heard movement, so I figured that if everyone else was up, and so was I, in a manner of speaking....”

“You are a bad man.”

“Yes.”

“Oh!  Well, as there is plainly no hope for such a recidivist as yourself, perhaps we should....”

“I thought you’d never ask, wife!”

 

The young couple got up and went down for breakfast, which was quickly forthcoming and substantial. There was a local newspaper to go with breakfast.

“Well!” said Gerard. “You will never guess what Frith has done!”

“Probably not; pray enlighten me,” said Jane, buttering toast in fingers to dip into her coddled egg.

“He has advertised that his daughter has been abducted using the wiles of African magic by a... black man. He is less complimentary.”

“Well! Of all the nerve, to advertise her, as if she were a lost dog!” said Jane, indignantly. “Wiles of African magic, really? He thinks the public so gullible?”

“Perhaps his own prejudice is so great that he cannot understand what makes his daughter cleave to a man who is so much the paradigm of all he despises,” said Gerard.

“But magic?” said Jane.

“Perhaps he thinks it easier to convince people of than the scientific mesmerism,” said Gerard.

“Sadly, I wonder if you might be right,” sighed Jane. “After all, people do flock to gypsies reading palms, and wasn’t there a case in the ‘Morning Post’ where some idiot was persuaded that the love of money was what was causing their illness, and were told to bury their life savings beneath a particular tree. And my goodness, what a surprise, when they came go dig it up, it was gone! It is truly amazing how credulous people can be, so my first reaction is perhaps wrong. Oh, Gerard! What if Tom and Sally are set upon by those who want to burn him as a witch?”

“By Jove! What a worrying thought. One can only hope that in going by Coventry, they are out of the area in which Frith put advertisements.

 

oOoOo

 

Tom and Sally, rising for breakfast and faced with an unfriendly crowd were a little nonplussed, and Tom put up his fists.

“Nobody tells a British tar who he might have as his lass,” he said. “And in the name of Lord Nelson, you take yourselves off, or answer to the contrary.”

The mix of the unlovely tones of Canvey Island, in the heart of Essex, Tom’s place of origin, and his vaguely remembered naval legal language made the crowd waver.

“If you’re a jack tar, you can sing ‘Hearts of Oak,” said one of the would-be witch burners.

Tom obliged with alacrity, and got up on the table to dance a hornpipe, which had his former tormentors thumping the table in rhythm, and throwing coins for the entertainment. Far from being hanged or burned, in Tom’s case, and taken into custody, in Sally’s case, Tom and Sally cleared another guinea, as some of the largesse was the greater for being given in feelings of guilt.  It might not help them be decoys, but Tom had noticed one man with a halter, and the mood had been ugly.

“African magic? What a pile of crap,” opined Tom, who had acquired a copy of the paper to see what had set people against him.

“Oooh, Tom, you was brave and clever,” said Sally, who had been terrified.

 

oOoOo

 

Mr. Frith was congratulating himself on a clever plan. Not only would people want a reward, they would be outraged by the idea, and would doubtless beat on the Franklin boy.  The idea that a mob might lynch or burn a witch had not entered his thoughts.

“If the boy dies, that might be seen as incitement,” warned Mr. Orpington.

“Nonsense,” said Frith.

They had stayed over at Woburn, seeking clues, and rose early to move on to Newport Pagnell.

Here there was news of not one, but two couples who fitted the description.

“Oh, doubtless that is incorrect,” said Orpington.  “These yokels are stupid.”

 

oOoOo

 

“Much as I would like to stay here, we had better get a move on,” said Gerard. “We have to be ahead for fifteen days to allow that young couple their occupancy rights to an ordinary licence.”

“No, we have to be on the road seven and a half days, in order to keep Frith from getting back within fifteen days to declare a just cause and impediment of not meaning that Mr. Franklin,” said Jane. “It would count, too. But if he isn’t there in time, it won’t because it will be too late.”

“I suppose he could ask an anullment.”

“I suspect he would find it easier to disown Lucy,” said Jane, dryly.

“You are probably correct,” said Gerard. “Ah, well, onward!”

Northampton was a short drive of a little over half an hour.

“Ask for directions,” said Gerard. “Check if we are on the right road for Leicester, to make sure we are going a different way to Tom and Sally.”

Jane did so, and made sure several people had a chance to see them.  Once through Northampton, Gerard picked up the pace, as the horses were fresh, and stopped for a late nuncheon in Lamport’s ‘Swan Inn.’ This was a fine, three-storey brick building, of no great antiquity, but the food was worth stopping for.  A private parlour was readily to be had, but not before Jane had spotted that the bluff, slightly vulgar-appearing man who gave them a sharp look had a notebook sticking out of his pocket, with the letters ‘Occ’ visible.

“Gerard, I think the man with the yellow birds-eye scarf is a Bow Street Runner,” she said. “His occurrence book is visible.”

“Maybe he should be warned,” said Gerard, leaving her in the private parlour and returning to the public bar.

The Bow Street officer looked at him.

“Hiding your face?” he asked.

“Protecting it,” said Gerard. “I suppose I can take this off in here, because I’m not out to bamboozle the law, only to play a may game with an unpleasant fellow.”

“You speak in riddles, squire; and what makes you think I’m the law?”

“My wife spotted your occurrence book,” said Gerard. “And that might mean life or death to you if you’re not wishful for someone to, er, bubble your lay, as I think the cant goes.” He took off the mask.

The man glanced down, and pushed his notebook out of sight.

“Much obliged to you, and your sharp-eyed lady,” he said. “Nasty scarring; how did you come by it?”

“Footpad; he fired close enough for the flash to burn me, I think it may have been double-shotted as well.  I’m hoping the powder-burns will fade with time; I’m vain.”

The runner peered closely.

“Ar, them’s powder burns right enough, not burns from molten metal,” he said. “Abe Langcostard at your service.”

“Molten metal?” said Gerard. “Coining?”

“You’re fast; or involved,” said Langcostard.

Gerard laughed.

“Why would I need to be involved in coining? I’ve an income of more than fifteen thousand. It would be small beer to me.”

Langcostard regarded him.

“Well, your clothes agree with that,” he said. “Watch any change you get, though; I ain’t sayin’ the publican is involved, and I’m pretty sure he ain’t, seeings as he sent for us, but there’s bad money comes through here. You’d be more likely to see it than the locals, being half-crowns.”

Gerard scratched his head, and accepted a heavy wet from the barkeeper.

“You know what I think? If you will listen to the theory of an amateur.”

“I’ll listen to any thoughts, squire.”

“It seems to me that someone got careless, dropping some coins here, or they’re testing the water, so to speak.  If I was passing bad money, I’d be giving it in change to all the gentlemen who will flock to Quorndon, Market Harborough, and other centres of the Hunt, who might not worry about change of sixpence here or there, but would take a half-crown.  And I’d be looking for a smithy with a saddlemaker associated, as the places they’d be most likely to spend their blunt. Even an obliging travelling smithy.”

“Much obliged to you, Mr....?”

“Wintergreen. Viscount, as it happens, but my bride and I are leading an irate father a merry dance. The groom is a friend of mine, and the bride’s father took against him.”

“Oho! And a blacked face, to the casual glance. Not using wiley African magic, then?”

“No, and I hope the young seaman and his girl who set out through Coventry haven’t had any trouble, for he’s the genuine article in so far as race is concerned.”

“I can’t really condone a runnaway marriage, you know, me lord.”

“Oh, the lass had permission until her father discovered that her bridegroom was the son of a Jamaican wife of colour,” said Gerard.

“Well, I can see it wouldn’t be to everyone’s tastes, but there ain’t no real difference,” said Langcostard.

“Why don’t you join us for a meal, Langcostard? I wager you’ve a story or two that would entertain my Jane.”

“Well, if you’re paying, my lord, I don’t mind if I do,” said Langcostard. “Their full spreads being above my touch.”

The full spread was, indeed, impressive, and what Gerard called ‘proper’ Melton Mowbray pies, with a layer of pork, a layer of chicken, and a layer of stuffing as well as plenty of jelly.

“This is the way our housekeeper in the Leicestershire house makes them,” he said, happily. “I know it’s not traditional but I like them this way.”

“You can like them any way you please, and I will order it so,” said Jane.

Star, too, was happy, with a plate full of dog’s meat, and another bone, which he later buried behind Gerard’s cushion in the curricle.

Mr. Langcostard dredged up a few stories suitable to be told in the presence of ladies, and the horses had a good rest, as the young couple remained at the inn half an hour longer than they had intended, and left with the remains of the large pie to fortify them on their way, wrapped tenderly by the innkeeper’s wife in waxed paper, and a couple of slices slipped to the gratified Mr. Langcostard, who was anticipating a long night watching a person of interest.

 

“Sunset’s about half six, should be light in the sky an hour after that,” said Gerard, eyeing the sky. “I make it half after two;  it’s ten miles to Market Harboro’ but if we pushed on for Leicester, we could do it in three hours, with the horses well rested, four at the outside if we rest them half way.”

“If you feel you can drive that long,” said Jane.

“I’m getting better every day,” said Gerard. “And that pie was sublime.”

 

oOoOo

 

Frith and Orpington had conflicting news in Northampton, hearing that one couple were taking the Coventry Road, and one heading due north from Northampton.

“We’d better split,” said Orpington. “I will take the Coventry road, for they must head west at some point to get to Gretna.”

“Very well, I will continue on the main road,” said Frith. “I still think it’s some sort of confusion. The roads will meet again at a little place called Manchester, and if going by Coventry, they’ll have to take the last bit before the roads meet by a lesser road, anyway.”

“I’ll see you in Manchester, then, unless I’ve caught up with them before then; I have my special licence,” said Orpington.

 

The men parted, and Frith pressed on.  He had been only an hour or two behind Gerard and Jane when he started off, but Gerard had better horses, and was a better driver. He was quite capable of overtaking a haywain, of which they had met several, Jane tossing largesse to any who moved to the left to give him room. Gerard stood to see further before committing himself, and only moved forward when it was clear.  Seeing this, several carters had signalled in time-honoured way to pass them, and had received a larger vail for their trouble.

Frith was impatient, but he was not stupid enough to overtake when he was not sure what was coming the other way; and did not thank those who signalled him to overtake. Unlike Gerard, whose health was drunk, Frith had bad cess wished on him. He also found himself sufficiently held up that he took a room in Market Harborough with gratitude for having reached somewhere moderately civilised at last.

His only thought was that it was most inconvenient of the peasantry to be making hay when he needed to be fast, with the spuriously smug expectation that his quarry was equally held up. Jane and Gerard had noticed the relatively poor quality of the hay, from what had been a bad year for all crops.

 

oOoOo

 

“Are we likely to run into any coiners, Gerard?” asked Jane, when they were tenderly ensconced in the ‘Welland Inn’ on the whimsical, if vague, recollection on Gerard’s part of the tales of Wayland the Smith, an old demi-god, from Norse or Saxon legend, with relation to his thoughts on coiners.

“Very unlikely, I should say,” said Gerard, cheerfully.  “But if we do, I am sure it will please Mr. Langcostard. I hope he enjoys his pie as much as I enjoyed you feeding me slices whilst I drove.”

“And Star enjoyed everything you dropped,” said Jane, cheerfully. “And we managed to eat dinner too; we shall get fat.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Gerard. “We’re in need of the energy with being on the road all day.”

“It’s a good excuse,” said Jane, gravely. “And you need to keep your strength up to make your wife happy at night.”

“Ah, a most excellent reason,” said Gerard.