Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight Page 19
“Like Beatrice?” George Warren surprised her by picking up her quotation. “You are a little like her, now I come to think of it. She’s always been one of my favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines.”
“You have a weakness for shrews? I should be grateful, I collect, that I do not remind you of Katharina in The Taming of the Shrew! I have no doubt she would have made an admirable governess if the opportunity had offered itself.”
“Kate!” said her mother again.
“My dear Miss Warrender—” But Kate cut short his protest with a rather blind curtsy and left them.
She did not reappear till supper time, when her darkcircled glittering eyes hinted at tears and forbade questions about them. “You had a pleasant visit, I trust, with our surprising cousin?” she asked, competently carving and passing her mother the breast of a cold squab. “What new talent do you think he will reveal next?”
“Oh Kate,” sighed her mother. “You are hard on that nice young man.”
“Nice?” She laughed, off-key. “Just the word! Scrupulous, you would say. No sister of his would ever go jauntering about the country in buckskins and topboots. If, of course, he had a sister. Lucky for her he hasn’t! Did you notice how careful he was not to sully our delicate ears with the word ‘breeches.’ No doubt, if pushed to it, he would have talked of ‘inexpressibles!’ Oh, mamma, dearest little mamma, do let us go to Tunbridge Wells!”
“That’s enough, Kate! I don’t want to go.” Mrs. Warrender’s firm reply surprised her daughter as much as if she had let off one of Mr. Cosgrove’s rockets in the dining room.
Kate was quiet after that, and withdrew to her room as soon as she decently could, Intolerable day. Fool that she had made of herself. “‘No sister of mine,’” she quoted angrily as she moved over to the window to draw back the curtain and let in a flood of moonlight. “ ‘Still less riding astride!’” Over at the stables a horse whinnied impatiently. Boney, fretting, as she was, for freedom? “Riding astride!” Why not? And plague take the lot of them. She move quickly to the chest where she kept her brother’s clothes. Kate Warrender must listen to what the gentlemen chose to tell her, and make a fool of herself when they left her in the dark. Kit Warrender could go where he pleased, do what he pleased, say what he thought.
She made herself wait, candle out, in the dark, until she had heard her mother pass her door, pause for a moment, and then go on, with a little sigh, to her own upstairs room. Then she heard Joe go heavily round locking up. At last, silence. It was early still, but they kept davlight hours at the stables. She dressed quickly, glad to find that Christopher’s clothes still fitted her after the long, lazy winter, opened her window quietly and was out in the welcoming moonlight.
Delighted to see her, Boney stood quietly to let her saddle up and they were soon safe outside the stable yard. Where next? Tonight, there was not room for her to breathe in the park. Luckily, she need not stay there. The children had found the new gap in the park wall when they were out primrosing, just before Mr. Winterton’s arrival. It lay heavy on Kate’s conscience that she had not told Lord Hawth about it, but how could she seek a private interview with him? Anyway, tonight she was glad of her omission. The gap was on the London side of the sea gate, very handy, she thought, for the smugglers, and very handy, tonight, for her. She and Boney would shake out their megrims on the London road. No fear of meeting anyone, since the little used country lane was a short cut to London only for the village of Tidemills and for Hawth Hall itself.
As always, the smugglers had been considerate, and the gap was neatly filled in with brushwood and hurdles, equally easy to remove or to jump, but safe to keep deer in and sheep out. Should she, after all, tell Lord Hawth in the morning? Things had been quiet at Tidemills since John Penfold had left. Thinking of the mob law reported from other parts of the country, the arson and frame-breaking, she thought it might be best to leave well alone.
Reaching the lane, she paused where it forked. She had forgotten how darkly overgrown the way to London was. A pity, she told herself, to leave moonlight for shadows. Besides, it would be awkward going, and she would be in a fine pickle if Boney were to slip and hurt himself. Liar! She shook her shoulders angrily, and Boney moved uneasily, recognising her mood. She was afraid of that dark lane. What had happened to Kit Warrender?
It had been a bad day. A bad two days. A picture of George Warren hanging on her mother’s words flashed before her eyes. Kit Warrender could pay a call on him tonight. Lord, she was tempted. He had said, several times, how much he would like to meet her cousin again. They would sit and talk over a glass of wine, as she had that first night with Lord Hawth. Kit Warrender could air opinions that his Cousin Kate must not venture. Kit could even consult George Warren about that gap in the park wall.
No! She shook the reins and turned Boney’s head towards the long, moonlit slope that led down to Tidemills. Madness even to think of going to Warren House. She was mad, she sometimes thought, but not so mad as that. She would ride down over the hill as far as the outskirts of the village. Moonlight gleaming on the great bend of the Glin as it wound down to the sea showed it full tide. The mill would be hard at work and the shift would change at midnight. She must keep well away from the village itself, but the easy ride, with the moonlit view of marsh and sea, was just what she needed.
It was soothing to let Boney find his own clever way down the chalky track while she looked ahead at the great shining curve of the sea between the two dark headlands, Glinde Head and Chyngford Point, that formed Glinde Bay. Lights on Glinde Head to the east showed where night watch was being kept, as always, at the barracks. Were they watching, as she found she was, the dark speck out towards the horizon that gradually defined itself as a small ship of some kind? Probably not. These moonlight nights were for fishermen, not smugglers. Someone from Tide-mills had doubtless decided to stay awake through his off-shift and go out for a spring catch of herring or mackerel. God knew they needed the extra food badly enough to stay awake for it. She must speak to Lord Hawth about conditions down at the mills. “They’re close to starving, miss,” Joe had told her. “My Aunt Sarah says she don’t know why things is so quiet. She don’t like it, she says. Her man don’t say nothing, and she don’t ask. But there’s meetings still, regular, she says.”
Kate sighed and pulled at the reins. She could hear a door bang in the village now, and a man’s voice came up to her in something between a shout and a curse. The new shift must be getting ready to go to work. She was quite as near as was safe. Besides, she had suddenly had a mad idea. All part of the general, moonlight madness? It was going to be difficult for Kate Warrender to speak to Lord Hawth in the morning. But suppose Kit Warrender were to call tonight? Lord Hawth might listen to him, when he would not to a woman, and particularly one who had just refused him. It must be near midnight, but Hawth sat up to all hours. Should she? Dared she?
On the thought, she had turned. Boney and kicked him into a brisk trot up the hill, moonlight from over her shoulder making the way easy. Kit Warrender could knock up old Ben, the lodge keeper at the sea gate, and insist on seeing Lord Hawth. Kit Warrender could tell him about the new gap in the park wall, and about the state of things at Tidemills. He would-listen to Kit.
Enjoying the idea, she was too deep in imagined talk with Lord Hawth to hear the other horse until it was too late. Horse and rider emerged from the thicket where the paths forked and came swiftly down the hill towards her. Absurd to feel such a sudden start of pure terror. And nothing to do but brazen out the meeting.
“You ride late.” The rider pulled in his horse as they met. The capes of his coat were pulled well up, and his hat down over his face, but moonlight and his cockney accent revealed him to Kate as a stranger.
“So do you.” With the moon almost behind her, Kate hoped to present nothing but a black silhouette.
“From Tidemills?”
“I’ve been there.” The right answer? The wrong one? “What’s doing there?”
“And you?”
“None of your business.” And as she spoke realised that she had let him outmanoeuvre her. He had edged the horses round so that moonlight struck clear across the side of her face.
“Mr. Warrender! You’re here already! The General will be mortal glad to hear that. He’s coming down tomorrow, sent me on ahead. Hell want to see you straight-away. Where are you for now?”
“Glinde.” What could this all mean?
“Of course. Well then, there’ll be a message for you at the Bell, soon as the General gets here. Things is moving at last, I reckon. Not long now. Goodnight, sir.” He rode swiftly away down the track towards the village. And, from it, the ruthless clamour of a bell announced that it was midnight already, and the shifts changing. Too late now to call on Lord Hawth. Besides, if she did, what in the world could she say? “Not long now.” The words rang in her head, echoing the brutal bell, as she rode slowly homewards. “Not long now,” and, “You’re here already,” and, “The General will be mortal glad.” What did it mean? What could it mean? She must think it over before she said or did anything.
The stranger reached the village, as he had intended, long enough after the second shift had gone in so that the street lay quiet again after the weary bustle of the changeover. Lights, here and there, showed where tired men were taking time to eat a meagre bite of bread, and maybe a bit of musty bacon, before they fell on their pallets and into the stupor of exhaustion. Children, waked by the commotion in the sordid one-room houses, cried and were irritably hushed by their mothers. Fathers must sleep and wake again, fresh enough to earn the family pittance.
At the Ship, he was expected. Jewkes, the landlord, had heard his horse come down the quiet street and was there on his doorstep to greet him. “You’re true to your time, Brother Jenson. Here, you, Pete, see to the gentleman’s horse, and then off to bed with you. I closed early.” He led the way into the empty bar, where abandoned beer mugs and a strong smell of tobacco told their own tale.
“They didn’t mind?”
“Mind! Course they minded. But they mind me, too, and no mistake. Your usual?” He moved behind the bar and reached for a squat, black bottle.
“Thanks.” Jenson had thrown greatcoat and shabby hat on a table and settled with a tired sigh on a bench by the fire. “A long day.”
“And not over yet. What’s the news from town?”
“Good and bad. The word’s still, ‘Not long now.’ Devil take me if I know what they’re waiting for. There’s trouble all over in the north. Manchester, Leeds, Huddersfield. Even Carlisle. General Ludd’s done his work well. So why must we hang back, down here in the south, and strave to death like clods?”
“Soon now, I reckon.” Jewkes had poured a stiff draft of gin. “That will warm you. Something to eat?”
“No, thanks. I stopped for a bite in East Grinstead. At a brother’s house. They’re ready and waiting there. Getting impatient, too. I tell you, man, it don’t make sense. With the spring, things will ease up, stands to reason. Things growing again, a bite of greens from the garden, a hen laying, maybe. Things is ripe and ready now. Take the time, I told the General, take it when it comes. It won’t stay for no one.”
“And what did he say?”
“ ‘Not long now,’ damn him. And, ‘wait.’ Like he’s said all winter. Well, true for him, up to a point. They’ve sent so many soldiers up north, they’re stretched mighty thin round London. But they know it. Talk of a new barracks building in the Regent’s Park. A new one in Brighton, too.”
“They won’t be built in time,” said Jewkes.
“Won’t be built at all, if the Whigs have their way. A great cry of waste of public money. Francis Burdett’s to speak against it in the House.”
“Will he come out for us, do you think?”
“The General says that’s partly what we are waiting for. Him and his friends. To declare themselves. I don’t want them. I don’t trust them. Lot of bleeding aristos. Use us and hang us, ask me.”
“Did the General?”
“Ask me? Does he ever? Keeps his own counsel, does the General. Have to wait for a sign, sez he. When the mail coaches don’t run. That’s the day. But what’s to stop them running? That’s what I want to know.”
“The General, of course. That’s mebbe what he’s waiting for. It’s the mob will, stop the coaches, but what’s to get the mob out? That’s the question, ain’t it? London mobs ain’t like no others. It takes more than a simple cry like ‘bread or blood’ for them. You ought to know that! You cobblers have always seen further than most, but you stay pretty quiet, mostly.”
“Waiting,” said the other man bitterly. “Jist waiting.” He held out his mug. “I’ll thank you for the same again. You’re not joining me?”
“No.” Jewkes took the mug and rose to his feet. “I’ve not touched a drop since the General first came, last autumn. He made me promise when he twisted me in. ‘There’s too many temptations in your line of business,’ he says. ‘You stay sober, Jewkes, and listen,’ and, by God, I have. When’s he coming down?”
“Tomorrow, he said. Meeting at the usual time ’n he wants to see young Warrender first. Funny thing, I thought he wasn’t due till tonight.”
“No more he isn’t.”
“But I met him. Half an hour ago. Just outside the village. Riding to Glinde, he said.”
Jewkes turned to look at him, bottle in one hand, mug in the other. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing much.” Jewkes’ tone had frightened him, and it showed in his voice.
“That’s no answer. What did you say?”
“Let me think.” He reached out a shaking hand for the replenished mug. “Nothing, really. Something about riding late. I didn’t recognise him at first, see, not till I got him round with the moon on his face. Then, of course, I knew him, called him by name. Told him the General would be glad he’s safe back.” He stopped, aware of something dangerous in the listening silence.
“Go on.” Jewkes’ voice grew more deadly as it grew quieter.
“Let me think.” Reluctantly. “Of course! Naturally, I told him the General was coming, would want to see him tomorrow. There’d be a message at the Bell. Nothing wrong with that, surely,” he said into the menacing quiet.
“You think not? And what else?”
“That was all, I reckon.” Some inner caution advised him to say nothing of his last, hopeful remark.
“Not quite all, I think.” A sharp man, Jewkes. And no mistaking the threat in his tone. “Go on, man. It’s important.”
“Just something about ‘Not long now.’ Just what I said to you.”
“Enough.” Jewkes took the half empty mug from his reluctant hand. “Enough to send us out again. And fast. You met him when?”
“Half an hour ago? Mebbe less.”
“Riding towards Glinde?”
“I told you. But what is all this?”
“Trouble. Not your fault, mebbe. Trouble just the same, and not a moment to lose. Pete!” His shout echoed through the quiet house. “Rouse out this instant and saddle up for us. You—” he turned on Jenson—“wait here. I’ll fetch my brother. Then we’re off.”
“But where to?”
“Hawth—” He paused, looking thoughtfully at Jenson. “No. You’ve had a long ride. Go to bed. Your usual room. My brother and I can manage.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No reason why you should.”
Tired, Boney jibbed at the more difficult jump over the brushwood barrier from the uphill slope. After putting him at it unsuccessfully for the third time, Kate resigned herself to the inevitable, tied him to a tree and went to work to clear a path for them. Idiotic not to have thought of this on the way out, but she had been in no state for clear thinking. Struggling with the tightly packed bundles of brushwood, she told herself that she might just as well report the gap in the wall to Lord Hawth in the morning. Th
is would have to be Kit Warrender’s last venture on the marsh.
The opening made at last, she led Boney through and felt hideously tempted to ride home and leave the gap unblocked. That would certainly ensure that Lord Hawth learned of it. But he and George Warren had recently bought a flock each of two different kinds of merino sheep. Hawth’s were in the park, Warren’s in the long meadow. They must not be allowed to mix. She sighed, tethered Boney again, and went to work with aching back and bleeding hands, only to stop, head up, listening, at the sound of horses, ridden fast, coming from the direction of Tidemills. What in the world? Some disaster down there? She moved over to quiet Boney, glad that she was safe inside the park boundary and out of sight of the lane.
Two horses? Three? Coming dangerously fast up the long hill. In a moment she would know whether they were heading for Glinde or London, and be able to go back to her exhausting task. Lord, she would be glad to be safe in her comfortable bed.
There was something hypnotic about the oncoming drum of hooves. She listened tiredly, a soothing arm round Boney’s neck as he bent to crop at spring grass, then suddenly threw up his head and whinnied. Too late, starting into full awareness, she heard the horsemen sweep straight across the lane to come crashing through the half-built barrier and pull their horses to a trampling halt.
“Mr. Warrender?” A familiar voice. Whose?
“Yes?” It must be smugglers. No reason to be afraid, surely? But she was. There were three of them and they had already formed their horses into a close circle round her and Boney.
“We need you.” Again, there was something teasingly familiar about the broad Glinde accent.
“Need me?” If she had been in the saddle, she would have made a wild attempt at escape, but standing there, with them looming over her, she knew herself helpless.
“Yes. Down at Tidemills. There’s trouble there. A meeting after the night shift. They talk of marching on the hall. You quieted them last autumn. You’re the only hope now.”
She had recognised him at last. “It’s Jewkes, isn’t it? From the Ship?” And knew it for a mistake the moment it was spoken. The blow caught her on the side of the head. She had an instant of blinding pain and panic, then nothing.