Death of a Radical (10 page)

“Miss Tallentyre of Mr. Sugden's troupe? I am Miss Lonsdale.”

Henrietta inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment as the actress sank into an over-elaborate curtsey.

“Players so seldom come to Woolbridge, Miss Tallentyre, we are looking forward to the treat. What do you offer us?”

“
Love in a Village
perhaps, ma'am, followed by
The Way to Keep Him,”
responded the actress pertly. “To open the fairs, Magistrate Raistrick has bespoke
The Beggar's Opera.”

“
The Beggar's Opera
! Fancy! And is there a speaking part in it for you?”

“I am Polly Peachum!” exclaimed Bess, stung.

“And does the role please you?”

“I am much applauded in it, ma'am. Although a good Macheath is hard to find. Now this one,” the actress insinuated a hand under the agent's arm, “he would make a thrilling Macheath, don't you agree?”

“Indeed?” Miss Lonsdale's fine eyes flashed the gentleman in question a fierce look. He was standing quite still with a distant air. She noted that he did not remove the hussy's hand.

“You must have heard him sing?” Bess trilled. “Why just this morning—”

Mr. Jarrett slid his arm free and took a small side step.

“I believe Mr. Raistrick wishes to speak to you, Miss Tallentyre,” he said, speaking low. Mr. Raistrick was indeed descending the stairs to join them.

Miss Lonsdale was mortified. She had a profound dislike of Mr. Raistrick; she thought him a rogue and a bad man. And that hussy had her eyes fixed on him as if he
were a fish she was reeling in on her line. Henrietta did not know if she was more furious with herself or with Mr. Jarrett: she who had allowed a foolish impulse to betray her into joining such company or the so-called gentleman at her side who betrayed no sign of appreciating the difficulties of her situation. Or perhaps his wooden countenance was an attempt to disguise his disgust at her unladylike inquisitiveness. Tears of frustration pricked Miss Lonsdale's eyes. Pressing her lips together she braced herself for her humiliation.

Bess was throwing out her hip. He could almost see her puffing up her breasts. Of course, that damned lawyer was enjoying the view. What had possessed Miss Lonsdale to join them? Jarrett risked a side glance at the lady. She was in profile to him. The tender curve of a white earlobe peeped out from beneath the smooth wing of her hair, unadorned and pure against the soft skin of her neck. He bent his head.

Henrietta felt the warmth on her cheek. The agent's low-pitched voice vibrated the tendrils of hair that skimmed her ear.

“I believe Miss Lippett waits to speak to you, Miss Henrietta. May I escort you to her?”

His arm was steady under hers. Miss Josephine's expression was a caricature of despairing outrage as she watched them approach. Henrietta suppressed a hiccup of hysterical laughter. She had not thought that the space in the yard was so great.

“You are previously acquainted with Miss Tallentyre,
Mr. Jarrett?” The question startled her; she had not meant to speak it aloud.

“I have seen her perform before, Miss Lonsdale,” he replied. Miss Lonsdale glanced back over her shoulder at the vignette of the magistrate and the actress.

“It seems that Miss Tallentyre has won another convert to her
performance,
Mr. Jarrett.”

They had reached their goal. Miss Lippett stood tethered to her space as if it had some magical protective properties. She reached out to slip an arm about Henrietta's shoulders and drew her close, throwing the agent a furious look. Jarrett experienced a flash of annoyance. His eyes traveled to the door behind them: the door that led to male company and ease. Damn Charles for abandoning him!

As if his mental summons had been heard, the door swung open to reveal Lord Charles.

“Ladies, you should come in and warm yourselves. I have found the lawyer's clerk for you, Miss Lippett. He is waiting within. Mrs. Bedlington has tea made fresh. Will you come?”

“With the greatest pleasure, my lord,” Miss Lonsdale replied with aplomb. The ladies swept past Mr. Jarrett with barely a nod and were gone. Charles reappeared a moment later. He shut the door behind him.

“Raif, you have such interesting acquaintances,” he remarked.

Raistrick stood at ease, one arm resting on the balustrade as he towered over Bess Tallentyre. Jarrett
watched as the actress threw back her head, showing off the line of her throat in her merriment. Bess had always had a taste for dangerous men. But she was no fool, he consoled himself, and loyal—or had been once.

“Can't say I'd want one of my liaisons consorting with that fellow. Unlucky, eh?” Charles was enjoying this entirely too much.

“Grub?” Jarrett inquired.

“Tea with the ladies.”

“Ah.”

Above on the gallery the Reverend Prattman was addressing Sir Thomas in hushed and urgent tones. They were too far away to catch his words. From the pantomime he appeared to be expressing his concern for the baronet's health in the chill air. Sir Thomas endured these attentions with the air of a stoical tortoise. Down below, Colonel Ison stood across by the stables, his back to them, elaborating his discourse with the occasional gesture. Lieutenant Roberts listened, his expression intent.

“Will the meeting reconvene, do you suppose?” Charles asked idly.

Jarrett's response was interrupted by a clatter of iron-bound wheels and hooves. A gig turned under the coach arch. A well-fed middle-aged woman encased in lilac satin sat up beside a grizzled old man who slumped over his reins. His mistress wore an extravagant hat fixed at an uncomfortable angle on her carefully pinned blond curls. Round, pale blue eyes swept the scene, coming to rest
on Magistrate Raistrick. The pale blue turned to ice as they inspected his companion.

Raistrick unfolded himself from his lounge against the gallery steps and sauntered over to the gig.

“What, Amelia, no carriage?” he asked without preamble.

The lady bunched her plump cheeks into a little-girl moue. “Bedford's abandoned me,” she responded in a flirtatious voice pitched a shade too high for a woman of her years. “He's taken the carriage to Leeds and left me to shift for myself. He's fetching his niece for a visit,” she added as an afterthought.

“How charitable of you.”

Mrs. Bedford cocked her head, her expression blank. How could she miss the irony in that voice? thought Jarrett. The lady produced a stack of white cards from the seat beside her.

“I bear invitations,” she declared gaily. “I am having a select reception Thursday night to mark the opening of the fairs. Do say you'll come.” She leaned toward the lawyer proffering a card, the action offering him a generous
coup d'oeil
of her ample bosom. Raistrick took the card, dangling it between finger and thumb.

“What a shame,” he purred. “I am sponsoring a performance from Sugden's players that very night. The delightful Miss Tallentyre over there is to give us her Polly Peachum in
The Beggar's Opera.”
Mrs. Bedford's mouth dropped open; she closed it with a snap. Raistrick looked deliberately across at the actress who stood
preening herself by the gallery steps. “Shall I introduce you?”

For a moment Jarrett thought Mrs. Bedford would respond to the unmistakable challenge but she displayed impressive self-control. A smile extended itself from her mouth, stopping just short of her eyes.

“What a calamity!” she exclaimed. “And what time does this
affair
start?”

“Eight, I believe.”

“Well, that's settled then!” The lady patted her gloved hands together in a parody of girlish exuberance. “You shall all come to me for your dessert and wine at six and we shall go as a party to your entertainment. Now, say you will come!”

Raistrick bowed his assent. Jarrett thought he detected in his manner a measure of appreciation at Mrs. Bedford's management. The lady extended her hand in a regal gesture. The lawyer, taking his cue, helped her down. Keeping his arm extended, he swung her round in an arc and let her go as if unleashing her upon the company. Whether by chance or design Mrs. Bedford fetched up before Miss Tallentyre. The actress contemplated her, a gloss of impertinent amusement on her pale face. Mrs. Bedford spun on her heel and swooped down upon the marquess.

“Lord Charles!” she trilled, “and Mr. Jarrett,” she added with a degree less warmth. “You will come to my party? Say you will?”

“You are kindness itself, madam, but I have a young
cousin just arrived and I fear—” Charles began by way of excuse. Mrs. Bedford would have none of it.

“What a treat!” she cried. “You must bring him. You'll not find better fare. I'm known for my sweets and Bedford never skimps on his wines. And we'll all go on together to Mr. Raistrick's theatricals.” She swept gaily on toward the colonel. Her eyes appeared to alight on the young lieutenant for the first time. She advanced upon him with a tigerish look.

“Is this our young defender? You must introduce me, colonel. You will come to my gathering—will you not? You know I'll be mortified if you neglect me!”

“Time we called the carriage,” murmured Charles.

“Grub will be exhausted,” Jarrett agreed.

“Should see him home.”

“Absolutely.”

They made their escape into the inn.

Several minutes later, as they took their places in Lord Charles's carriage, Mrs. Bedford still had the colonel and his lieutenant pinned. The carriage swung out into the street. Jarrett caught sight of a new figure in the background of the scene. A man was gazing at the colonel as if waiting to catch his attention. At the last moment, as the carriage passed, Nat Broom turned his face away into the shadows.

Favian settled back against the comfortably cushioned upholstery and gazed happily at his cousins. He fingered the ballad sheet secured safe in the pocket of his coat. He thought of his day's adventures and hugged to
himself the promise that there were more and better to come.

Her view of the gentlemen was obscured by the table top. It was confined to four legs, clothed in dark cloth breeches and black stockings, and two pairs of smooth polished leather shoes with silvery buckles—one pair square and sharp, the other rounded and rubbed. The strangers had arrived that afternoon on the stage from Carlisle. They had taken separate rooms. Such details Hester Teward, the daughter of innkeepers, had noted, but her real interest lay in the paper bag protruding from the rounder gentleman's pocket. Being five years old she was of the perfect height to notice such things. Her eyes followed the fingers as they reached in to draw out another piece of cinder toffee from the striped paper. The elegance of the wrapping identified the sweets as Hester's particular favorites—the treat her da would bring her back when he attended the monthly market at Penrith. During the winter months the road across the tops from Bowes was frequently impassable and she had not tasted such sweets for ever so long.

There was a knock on the door and her mother entered.

“There's men asking for you, Mr. George. Say they're expected. Hester, you come out from under there! Stop bothering the gentlemen.”

Her mother's hands reached under the table and Hester was unceremoniously swept up into her arms. The
sudden change of perspective on the room and its occupants was entertaining. She looked down on the gentleman with the toffee. He had round cheeks and a bald patch at the back of his head. His hair was cut short and reminded her of the fur of Tuffy, her dog—the thick curling fur on his chest. The gentleman's eyes crinkled into slits as he smiled up at her. Hester did not like his companion. He was stringy with hard edges. He had the mean look of a man who did not favor children. As her mother carried her out of the room the first man spoke up.

“Perhaps the little girl would care for some toffee?”

He did not speak like folk Hester knew, but she understood the offer. She reached down and selected the largest piece in the bag with care. It was solid and sticky in her chubby fist. She sucked on it happily.

“Thank the kind gentleman,” her mother's voice insisted.

But the sweetness in her mouth was too good to remove so Hester smiled around it and giggled at her new friend over her mother's shoulder, her curls bouncing about her radiant face.

He never slept for long. It was a habit formed during his military service. Behind enemy lines a man who slept too deep risked being captured or killed. Despite the removal of that imperative, in civilian life the habit remained. He relished the peace of the small hours when the world slept. In the chill half-light he could be himself—self-sufficient, self-possessed.

The stable clock chimed four as he put down the sword he carried and hung the lantern on a convenient hook. Walcheren, his big-boned bay, poked his head over his stall to greet him with a soft whinny. Jarrett ran a hand over the animal's sleek neck. Walcheren's breath misted white from his flared nostrils. Outside there was heavy frost on the ground and stars stood out against a clear sky. The shifting lantern light illuminated a straw-stuffed target suspended from a hook. It was crossed with lines marking out seven segments. A black line of tar ran across the floor from a spot midway beneath the bottom of the target. He picked up his
sword. Placing his feet either side of the line, he began the familiar ritual.

It was soothing. He focused on the exercise of muscle and will required to fuse the sword into an extension of his arm. First position, second position, lunge. He moved smoothly, striking the shifting dummy across each segment, body upright, balance correct, his aim true.

It was pure luxury to be alone. Of all the adjustments of civilian life, it was the unrelenting assault of inquisitive society he found the most difficult. Military life might be boring and dangerous by turn but it had a map, a uniformity that allowed self-containment. He had always considered himself a competent man. It was unsettling to discover existence in a provincial town more challenging than life-threatening exertion and the exercise of set tasks.