A Curse Dark as Gold (39 page)

"But not a boy," I said, understanding. Mercy, who knew better than I what it meant to have a son to inherit? "Not an illegitimate son."

Uncle Wheeler was lost somewhere in the past. "He found me at Highton Park, banging on the postern gate in the middle of the night, sick and drunk and looking like I'd crawled straight out of the slime I'd been born in. I don't know what he was doing there -- it didn't occur to me to wonder at it. I was just a boy, and when a gentleman pulls up beside you in a four-in-hand and invites you in for a brandy and cakes before you catch your death of cold ..."

"You climb right in," I whispered, recalling the glint of gold thread by fading sunlight. How easily had Rosie and I given in? Surely it took less to lure a desperate, angry boy into his influence. Oh,
surely
it had taken far less!

"You climb right in. He whisked me off in just such a coach as I'd been polishing since I was big enough to reach above the axle. He introduced himself as Mr. Smart, and he had calling cards to prove it. Rob Smart --" he gave me that same bitter little smile, "Esquire." Uncle Wheeler laughed, startling me. "They don't carry cards that say
'Others,'"

"No," I said. "No, indeed they do not."

The carriage had carried him all through the night, he said -- but only that one night. He'd have sworn to it. By the time morning broke, they had arrived in Harrowgate, and young Enoch's filthy working clothes had become the clean, soft dress of a young gentleman: brushed wool frock coat, white stockings, tapestry waistcoat, and silver-buckled shoes.

"Dressed me up just like the rag-girl in the fairy story," Uncle Wheeler said. "And, would you believe it? He dropped me right off at the ball."

Not a ball so much as a gentlemen's club of the sort Enoch Lowman could never have gained entry. But that Enoch Lowman was gone, and a new young dandy stood in his place. He could hardly believe his luck.

"What did he want from you?" I asked. "For payment?"

Uncle Wheeler laughed again, and it was a sound that had not the slightest mirth in it at all. "Oh, that
is
the best part, isn't it? What did he want? In exchange for a new life, a new identity, a new wardrobe, and a purse full of silver?" He shook his head, as if he could not quite believe it, all these years later. "I had half a crown from my father -- the only thing he'd ever given me. Like a tip. I was happy to be rid of it, just then."

The boy Jack Spinner had dropped at the club in Harrowgate was already well on his way to becoming the Ellison Wheeler that had descended upon us in Shearing so many months ago. But the pouch of silver would not last forever, and young Enoch -- now calling himself by an array of fancy names as varied as his wardrobe -- found himself in a constant scrabble for income.

"But I was young, and handsome enough, and hungry. I found a series of diverting occupations, and more than enough willing ... affiliates to assist me. The right clothes, the right manners, the right names ... that was enough to get invited to their dining rooms, their game rooms, their bedrooms. And if things occasionally got too close,
he
was there. A debt I couldn't cover, a husband whose ego couldn't be soothed. Get in a scrape, and who should be round the next corner but my old pal Rob Smart?

"I knew what he was, by then, of course -- or close enough. I was playing the game too well to have any illusions about the 'help' he was giving me. A whole new identity all over again, and all for just my mother's tattered handkerchief, a lock of my sister's hair? He steals from you, bit by bit, and you pay up freely. But what care had I for the scraps and trinkets of a life better forgotten? As I said, I was more than happy to be rid of them.

"But then, oh, then! I had my grand idea. I had had enough of skulking about the fringe of Harrowgate's great society. I was tired of being Jack Harrison of the Wakefield Harrisons, William Pendleton, Edward Holmes-Whitley. I wanted my own name -- my father's name,"

He paced before the fire, spark animating his recollections. I felt cold and sick as I watched him. "What did you do?"

"I marched my way into Old Wheeler's -- let's see, that would be your great-uncle, I believe, good old Harrison's big brother -- Old Wheeler's study, and told him, flat out, what I wanted. Papers drawn up declaring me, by legal right, a Wheeler by birth and name. Once I suggested it was better worth his while than to have me start spreading the word that his precious new axle-bearings were really the work of a machinist at Spinney and Sons, he was more than happy to oblige me."

"Was that true?"

He shrugged. "Did it matter?"
I huddled deeper in my quilt to suppress a shudder. "So just your name? That was all?"

"Oh, well -- there was a little matter of a thousand pounds, just to be certain I would keep the whole thing as ... discreet as possible. Can't have word leaking out, now, can we?"

"And what about your Rob Smart?"

He paused, stroking his dressing-gown collar. "As it happened, things weren't quite so smooth as Ellison Wheeler as I may have anticipated. A few years ago I ran a bit afoul of some creditors. Crossed the wrong fellow at cards, perhaps, romanced the wrong lad's little sister. Who can remember? And thus I found myself -- temporarily inconvenienced. At His Majesty's pleasure."

"Debtors' prison."

At those two words, Uncle Wheeler faltered. "Yes. Well. And there we met again. I believe you know the rest of that tale."

He turned to watch the fire, and as my eyes followed his gaze into the flames, I was sure that nonchalance was an act.
Sparrow. Virginia Byrd. The wrong lad's sister.
He did remember how he'd come to be thrown in prison -- what had he paid Spinner to get out again?

Just then, however, my uncle's narrative was interrupted by that long-awaited knock at our door, announcing maids laden with bedclothes and -- oh, sweet! -- our warm, dry nightclothes. Instantly the familiar Uncle Wheeler was back, genteel but brusque and disapproving of the lateness of the hour and the state of our reclaimed garments. I tried to thank the girls graciously, but I was well past my limits of strength and courtesy by then. I think they must have noticed, for they tucked me into the bedroom with smiles, a wink, and a "don't worry, mistress. Sleep well."

Despite their gentle ministrations, I lay awake a long time, turning dark visions over and over in my head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I thought
surely I would get no sleep that night -- my thoughts raced among worry for Rosie and William back home and Randall wherever he might be, haunting visions of murder by moonlight, and the sorry account of my uncle's past. But the drive and the rain and the worry did me in at last, and I slept far sounder than I ought.

I awoke to a watery sunlight filtered between the drapes of my unfamiliar bedchamber. I peeled myself out of bed and bent all over to work the stiffness out of my joints, then padded to the window. My room overlooked the street below, and I watched dogs and children dart among the legs of waiting horses. Goodness, what time must it be? I rang the bell while I dressed, and asked the maid to wake my uncle and have a groom ready the trap.

She looked back at me, a little frown between her eyebrows.

"Is something wrong?" I said.

"Mistress came in with the bewigged gentleman, yes?" she said. "A new black trap and two black horses?"

"Yes, yes. What's the matter?"

"But, mistress --" She shook her head. "He left hours ago, said you weren't to be disturbed --"
"What?"

"Your uncle's gone, ma'am."

My legs went out from under me, and I sank into the little chintz armchair. "With the carriage? And the horses?"

The girl nodded. "Are you all right, ma'am? I could send for someone --"

I must pull myself together. The trap was gone, Uncle Wheeler was gone, Jack Spinner would be back at midnight, and I was twenty miles from my home and my child. I held tight to the arms of the chair so not to think too keenly of that. Where had Uncle Wheeler gone? Perhaps his confession had been merely the last act in his long performance, and, seizing opportunity and carriage both, Ellison Wheeler had fled to a new life, a new incarnation. I might never see him again. That thought gave neither sorrow nor relief. I had to get home. I forced myself to my feet.

"Yes, of course I'm all right," I lied. "Are they still serving breakfast?" Whatever else needed doing, I wasn't doing any of it on an empty stomach. I felt thin and hollow, like a strong breeze might blow me right over. And there was no having that, not today.

After a fortifying breakfast and an entire pot of hideous black coffee, I marched myself to the innkeeper and made inquiry about finding my way back home.

I was in luck -- believe it -- the stage comes through the Gold Valley once a week, and by some odd convergence of the stars in my favor, it was due that afternoon. There was no question of hiring a private cab; last night's rain had left the road a river of muck stretching in both directions, and no sensible driver would attempt it. And though everything told me to point toward Shearing and
go
-- run, fly, just get home however I could -- a foot journey of near twenty miles is not undertaken lightly, and stranding myself even five miles down the road would not get me passage on the stage. I had to wait a good four or five hours I could not afford to spare, but the cost was minimal, and it would have me home by evening. Just in time -- should we not break an axle or be beset by highwaymen -- to make my meeting with Jack Spinner.

Since the landlord clearly did not want me loitering about his common room while I waited all day for the stage to arrive, I collected Pilot from the stables and set off walking into town. For a Sunday morning, it was surprisingly lively. Much larger than Shearing, Haymarket made her living from the farmers in the widening valley to the south and supported a booming mercantile economy. It gave me a pang to walk through those paved streets and know that if one of the shops I saw -- the cartwright's, the brewery, the tannery -- failed, the whole town would not crumble behind it.

It seemed as though the Wheelers had all but built this town. In addition to the splendid brick storefront of Wheeler & Sons, Ltd, Wheelwrights & Carriage-Maker, Haymarket boasted a Wheeler Square, Wheeler Street, some business proclaiming itself Wheeler & Roper, and a public house called Wheeler's. Even the imposing city market hall bore the Wheeler name. Signs were evident, too, of the Lowman family -- in the shabby little hostelry, in a sign for a dressmaker in a dingy upstairs window, in an abandoned butcher shop. No wonder young Enoch had longed for grander things.

In a noisy little square surrounding a dry fountain, I stopped and bought lunch from a cart. As I was counting out coins for the pasty, I saw that the awning was bedecked with strings of small figures twisted from straw. I looked down at Pilot, who bore a wise expression that seemed to answer all my questions. I brushed my fingers against her ears.

"How much for the corn dollies?" I asked, peering into my reticule.

"For you, miss? I'll throw one in for a penny."

I went to choose one, but the old woman stopped my hand as I reached for a little figure.

"That's not for you," she said. "Here." She pulled down a dolly from the back of the cart and pressed it into my hand. It was a small figure and somewhat misshapen, almost impish, with a little hat crudely shaped from the straw. I frowned at it.

"Are you sure?"

The old woman nodded, tucking her hands inside her cloak. "I think that's the one you want."

Pilot let out one short sharp bark and gave the old woman her most engaging smile. She may just have been impatient for her share of the pasty, but it's hard to say.

The old woman nodded comfortably. "You mind her, missie," she said.
"She
knows."

By the time the stage was due, I was convinced that it had become enmired or overturned, but it finally lumbered into the coachyard. The only passengers disembarked at the Red Drake, and the coachman generously allowed me to bring Pilot aboard.

"How long will it take to get to Shearing?" I asked as the coachman helped me aboard.

"In this muck?" He shook his head. "It's hard to say. But I haven't lost a wheel yet, and Heavy and Pull are two of the best horses for this kind of weather. Don't you fret -- I'll have you home for your supper." And then, with a jolt and a groan and an alarming mechanical creaking, we were off at last.

Well past my promised supper-hour arrival and deep under cover of starlight, the coach heaved and slid its way into Shearing. Although the journey itself had been relatively uneventful -- we only got stuck once, and the coachman and the horses had us unstuck in minutes -- I had been frantic the last few miles. I was half out of my seat and ready to dive out the narrow coach door the moment we crossed the Stowe bridge and passed the smithy.

The stage normally stops at the Drover's Arms, but the coachman kindly let me off at Stirwaters. Pilot leaped out the moment he opened the door, disappearing after some skittering shadow, and I was scarcely far behind. I had a moment of indecision when I alit from the coach -- home or mill?
Home or mill?
William and Rosie were at home, but Spinner would surely be at the mill by now. Oh, mercy, what was the hour? I fumbled through my cloak for my earth-encrusted watch, but my numb fingers could not seem to find it.