A Shadow's Bliss (16 page)

No coward, Oliver Crane snatched up a whip and raced to the stall. His whip whistled down and the stallion spun with a shrill neigh of pain, his strong teeth snapping within inches of Crane's face.

Tearing off his coat, Jonathan shouted, “He knows me!”

Two grooms ran to help, but Crane waved them back. “Let the Shadow Man handle him.”

Maddened by fear and the pain of the whip, Bravo reared again.

Jonathan darted under the flying hooves, snatched desperately for the halter, and hung on. Bravo's eyes started from their sockets. His scream of fury all but deafened Jonathan. “It's all … right,” he said, dodging those lethal forelegs, and twisting the halter tighter about his hand.

The stallion's head jerked up. Jonathan's merciless grip forced it down. “Easy … Bravo,” he said, hanging on for dear life. “Down, old fellow … You know I … won't hurt you. Gently, now.”

With his left hand, he managed somehow to toss his coat over Bravo's head. It was not a procedure the stallion liked. He tried to rear up, which hurt his tender mouth. That iron hand was still there. He whirled blindly, and crashed against a post. He was frightened, but the voice was still talking steadily, and it came to him that this was a familiar voice, and one he had learned to trust. The whip wasn't cutting him now. One of the iron hands was stroking his neck. His sides heaving, he decided not to buck again for a minute or two …

Out of breath, but still talking softly, Jonathan said, “Don't move, Isaac.” He continued to stroke the stallion's sweating neck, and Bravo stood still, trembling violently. With slow caution, Jonathan removed the coat, and Bravo followed meekly as he led him out.

All work had stopped. A murmur of approval sounded. Crane started toward the shaken Isaac. His eyes met Jonathan's. He nodded grudgingly, but said, “Your brainbox is empty, all right, else you'd never have tried such a stupid trick.”

“I'd say jolly well done, rather!” Sir Vinson came in at the open door, and crossed to give Jonathan a slap on the back. “You took a chance there, my lad. Good thing the horse knows you.”

“Bravo's in a sweat, sir,” said Crane, hiding his chagrin that the master should have come in at just that moment. He jerked his head at Jonathan. “Cool him down, and—”

“Someone else can do that,” said Sir Vinson. “Let the man catch his breath. How's young Blary?”

Isaac came up looking pale and sheepish, and said that he was all right.

“Aye, well you've Crazy Jack to thank,” said Sir Vinson. “Never allow a horse to trap you like that! You came precious close to being killed.”

Isaac nodded, mumbled his thanks to Jonathan without looking at him, and slunk away.

Sir Vinson turned to Crane, who watched enigmatically. “Change of plans for tomorrow, Crane. I'll need you here. Lord Green has two teams of draft horses coming down from Barnstaple. Had 'em shipped from Ireland. There seems to have been some trouble in the harbour—that damned silt again, I fancy—and his lordship wants you to check the animals over to be sure they're not ruined.”

Briefly, Crane looked stunned. “But I'm driving Miss Britewell down to Breton Ridge tomorrow, sir. Worden's a good man. He can check his lordship's animals.”

“Very likely.” The edge of annoyance in the head groom's voice had not escaped Sir Vinson, who did not tolerate opposition from his servants. He said coldly, “However, I have told Lord Green he can have the benefit of your knowledge, so we must find someone else to drive my daughter.”

Greatly daring, Crane persisted, “But that would mean he'd be away several days, sir, and I can't spare—”

“Jupiter, what a bobbery you make, man! I wonder
you
could be spared if we're so pinched for grooms!”

“It's not that, sir! But it's a tricky road. Biddle's the only man I trust with a coach and four, and he let one of the hacks step on his foot, so he can't work. There's only me, sir.”

“Nonsense! Why, I'll warrant any of 'em—even Crazy Jack here, could do the thing!”

Crane's jaw dropped. “Sir! You'd never trust
him
to drive Miss Jennifer? Besides, he's to work for Mr. Fleming tomorrow!”

He had overplayed his hand. Sir Vinson, who'd really had no intention of allowing Jonathan to serve as coachman, lost his temper. “Then, dammit, he can work for Mr. Fleming when he gets back! What about it, Jack? Have you ever driven a coach?”

Jonathan answered eagerly, “I've driven a four-in-hand, sir!”

“Have you, by Jove! Couldn't be better, and I know Miss Britewell thinks well of you. Come on up to the house, and we'll find you some livery. Can't have you driving in to Breton Ridge wearing those—er, garments. Lord Kenneth would think we were properly in the basket!” He laughed at this witticism, and the small crowd laughed dutifully, with many a sly grin being directed at the glowering head groom.

Well aware that Crane could have strangled him, and not giving a button, Jonathan followed Sir Vinson out.

It took half an hour for the housekeeper to find livery of an approximately suitable size, and another twenty minutes involving measurements and pins, before Jonathan was dismissed. The alterations would be made this evening, she said, and he could collect the livery in the morning.

His hope for a glimpse of Jennifer was not gratified. A vastly superior footman conducted him to the servants' entrance and said in a far from superior accent, “'Op orf,
Mister Coachman!
Coachman, h'indeed!” and with a derisive snort, slammed the ponderous door.

Dusk was deepening to darkness, and the courtyard was clammy, the light from two flambeaux creating diffused haloes in the foggy air. Determined to have a look at the Blue Rose Mine, Jonathan turned eastward, and strode along, his steps as light as his heart, envisioning the joys of being close to his adored lady on a beautiful estate free from unlovely barons and heavy-handed grooms. So lost was he in this bright dream that he was startled when a boulder suddenly hove up directly in front of him. The light was gone, and the fog was now a dark wall.

“Jupiter!” he muttered, and peered about for the rough track that led from Triad to the mine. He'd have thought he could follow it blindfold, but in his happy preoccupation he had evidently strayed from it. He stood still, and could hear the faint crash of breakers off to the right, which meant he'd been heading southward. He turned to the east, and kept on cautiously, his narrowed eyes searching for gullies. He had progressed some distance when he heard a muttering behind him and checked at once.

A familiar voice with a strong French accent said argumentatively, “There was not such a thing, 'ave I not say it? Me, I 'ave ze ears
par excellence,
and I should, if any man pass by, know it.”

“Like yerself, don'tcha, Frenchy?”

A London voice, this, and it triggered a flood of French invective that brought a grin to Jonathan's lips and also enabled him to move on without fear of being heard. So although the Frenchman had never appeared at Castle Triad, he was still loitering about the area, and it sounded as though he was guarding—

Only his early training in the high rigging enabled him to catch his balance as the earth seemed to fall out from under him. His next step was no less steep. He was on a downward slope. It had to be the approach to the mine! He moved ahead very slowly, groping his way. All sound was muffled now, but he was soon conscious of a change. There was the faint smell of burning wood, and he sensed that something hung over him. He reached up and touched cold stone. Triumphant, he thought, ‘By heaven, I'm inside!'

Soon, the fog began to thin, and he found that he was in a narrow down-sloping corridor. It was still very dark, but occasionally through the eddies he could discern a faint glow. Someone was here, all right! Everyone knew of the plans to reopen the Blue Rose, but nothing was certain as yet; no supplies had been brought in, no hiring started. So, why the guards outside? And if his lordship wanted to do some preliminary explorations, why all the secrecy?

He heard a murmur of many voices interspersed with laughter, and a moment later, froze, his fists clenching as there came a faint rattling sound, as of pebbles displaced just ahead.

Without warning a hand clamped onto his arm. A voice hissed, “Damn you for a clumsy fool, Jamie! Now we'll have to—”

He said softly, “I'm not Jamie.”

“Well, why the devil ain't you?” The voice was indignant and the grip on his arm tightened.

Amused, he whispered, “My apologies, sir. But—”

“That you, Lord Haughty-Snort?” This voice was breathless. “'Fraid I stumbled a trifle.”

“If you're Jamie,” said the first man, “who the deuce is this fellow?”

“Be dashed if I know. One of them, I suppose.”

Someone yelled,
“Wer da?”

“It's a blasted Hanoverian!” exclaimed the first man.

“I'll leave you to pay our respects.” ‘Jamie,' a dim outline, came up and rushed past. “Sorry, my pippin. Must trot.”

Running feet were approaching. Jonathan's arm was released and the man beside him murmured an unruffled, “He has execrable manners. My apologies, but I can't seem to find my card case. Is yours handy?”

“I don't have one about me at the moment.”

“Hey!” roared another voice. “Speak up, DeVries, or I fire!”

“In that case,” said Jonathan's companion, “since we ain't been introduced…” He melted into the darkness.

Jonathan raced after him, unable to see where he was going, but made reckless by a brightening light behind him, and a babble of angry voices. He came to an abrupt halt. Someone was running towards him! “Treed!” he muttered, flung himself to the side, and collided hard with a stone wall. A deafening shot, a stab of flame, and the oncoming man cried out and fell.

Jonathan whispered, “Sorry, Father,” and neglected his obligation to help those in need.

“Blasted fool!” a man howled. “You went and shot the Frenchy!”

The air was colder now, the sense of confined space was gone. Jonathan had no complaints, and he sprinted in what he hoped was the direction of the village.

C
HAPTER
VII

The early morning sunlight bestowed a faint but welcome warmth on the little donkey's shaggy back, and the two men in the cart were so deep in conversation that when his trot slowed to a walk, it went unnoticed. He ambled along, snatching up a dandelion now and then, at peace with his world.

“How d'ye know he was a Frenchy?” asked Noah Holsworth, eyeing his companion furtively. “Does ye speak it?”

Jonathan replied evasively, “I—er, they called him ‘the Frenchy' when he was shot down. Besides, there was no mistaking his accent.”

“Hmm. And you was chased out by a great lot o' foreigners.”

“Yes. I'd likely not have got away save that it was thick fog, and night.”

“And not no one else saw any of these carryings on?”

Jonathan hesitated, and for no reason he could have put into words, did not speak of “Jamie” and his companion, saying only, “Between the fog and the darkness I very much doubt it.”

“Ah,” muttered Holsworth, and with another oblique glance, asked, “and were it foggy the night you saw—er, that there lady what lost herself?”

“No. Have you any notion of who she was, Mr. Noah?”

“Never saw such a creature. Just—er, disappeared into thin air, did she?”

Jonathan laughed. “No, sir! She was met, and rode off with someone. Though I couldn't see him,” he added reflectively.

“Someone you … couldn't see…” Holsworth blinked. “Then how—ah, how d'you know he met the lady?”

“I heard her laugh, and a man was talking quietly. I thought then that she must have been a guest at Triad, but I heard nothing of any overnight company.”

“There's female servants at the castle,” Holsworth pointed out. “Mr. Crane's got his eye on one of 'em, and meets her on the sly when she gets her day off.”

“Likely that's the case, then. Although I had the impression—well, I mean her manner was more that of—of a lady of Quality. Still, it was almost dark, and you're doubtless in the right of it. And 'tis of no importance and has nothing to say to what all those men are about in the Blue Rose. None of the supplies have arrived for the work to begin, so why do you think Lord Green should find it necessary to put guards on the place?”

“No reason I can see, but then a lord don't have to have reasons for foolishness. I'd like fine to know where all these foreigners come from. And how they got to the mine with nobody ever seeing hide nor hair of 'em.”

“At night, I should think. 'Tis sufficiently isolated. Unless…” Jonathan paused, and muttered half to himself, “There were all those marks in the sands…”

Peering at him uneasily, Holsworth suddenly became aware that the cart had come to a complete halt. “Marmaduke!” he shouted, slapping the reins sharply on the donkey's back. “You're going to make Jack late, and that'll be a fine bobbery! Hoist your hoofs!”

Marmaduke broke into a trot again, and the cart rattled up the hill towards the castle.

Remorseful, Holsworth said, “A fine help I was to ye. I'd have done better to let you walk.”

“No, no. It was good of you to pick me up. Besides”—Jonathan squinted at the sun—“I doubt 'tis much after eight.”

“And you wanted to be there 'fore Crane was up, so as to hide that.” Holsworth jerked his head to the new cage, which resided in the back of the cart. “You'll not do it now. I cannot think why you wanted to take him in the first place. The Widder'll feed the creature for ye.”

This was perfectly true. The trouble was that Mrs. Newlyn had some odd notions as to what birds liked to eat. She had several times brought “tidbits” of salt pork or haddock for Duster, who had drawn away from them in revulsion. More alarmingly, the lady tended to be absent-minded and there was no knowing what might happen if she brought Sprat along. But her nature was generous and she meant so well that not for the world would he put his reservations into words. He therefore replied untruthfully that Duster refused to touch any food while he was away. “If I can just hide him on the box of the carriage, I'm sure Miss Jennifer won't object.”