Household (13 page)

He agreed with her. November in Northumberland was no time for a birthday ball, not with the roads piled high with snow and the drawbridge icy over the frozen moat.

His thoughts shifted to Kathleen, who had met Sir John Driscoll, the man she later married at her birthday ball, given three years ago when she turned 18. He wondered if Juliet would find the man she would eventually marry on this occasion. He doubted it. According to her letters, she had been in and out of love no less than four times in six months! Kathleen’s temperament was entirely different. Colin suspected she did not approve of Juliet’s flighty ways. She would never admit to such a thing, though. Family loyalty was strong in them all. He smiled fondly. Kathleen would soon be brought to bed of her first child, and due to the fact that Sir John had been sent to Madras three months earlier, his sister would be having her baby at the Hold. He was glad of that and suspected that Kathleen was, too. She had not wanted to leave the castle—none of them did. His smile vanished. He would have to leave it eventually since Tony stood to inherit. He frowned, sighed, and since it did no good to ponder upon the inevitable, he fixed his mind on his present dilemma. How he could have lost his way—and so close to home?

The forest path onto which Miranda, his mare, had unaccountably wandered while his attention had been diverted was narrow. The trees were so dense they blotted out the waning light. He would have difficulty finding the road again and though he could be no more than a league from the Hold, he would probably have to hole up in another tavern for the night. There would be only a small sliver of a moon to light the sky and, in his last letter, his father warned that there had been a veritable plague of highwaymen upon the roads of late.

Colin frowned, cursing his absent-mindedness. He had been looking forward to spending this night beneath the castle roof. In addition to the pleasure of seeing his family again, he was weary of putting up at indifferent hostelries and like as not sharing a bed with some flea-ridden stranger. He was also sick of the food, either overcooked or raw. There seemed to be no happy medium. As for the wine, it was all corked, or so it had appeared to him.

Miranda suddenly neighed and reared, nearly unseating Colin. Startled, he reined her in and looked about to see what might have frightened the animal. Not surprisingly, he could see nothing. It was even darker now, and he must concentrate on trying to find a way out of woods that seemed to be growing more impenetrable with every step his mare took. Wheeling her around, Colin started back the way he had come. Surely the path must branch off and they would find themselves on the highway.

He was considerably relieved when at last they emerged upon a broader road. Still it was one he did not immediately recognize. Fortunately there was a light flickering in a window less than half a mile distant. Seeing a painted signboard swinging in the evening breeze, Colin realized he had found his inn. He patted Miranda’s flank gently and a short time later entered The Green Dragon, an inn which looked very old, a fact substantiated by the host.

Identifying himself as Mr. Horatio Chubb, he welcomed Colin with a large smile, exposing teeth almost as green as the faded dragon on the sign. He was a small, stout man with a tic in one eye which made it appear as if he were always winking. As he led Colin into the common room, he said, “This ’ere place were built afore an ’Anover set ’isself on the throne. It were ’ere afore the Stuart kings, too. It were built when Whitby Abbey were filled wi’ monks.” Having delivered himself of this gratuitous information the host indicated a table adjacent to a small fire burning in a great hearth.

Colin, sitting down in an old wooden chair, found himself the sole occupant of a musty chamber with a low, beamed ceiling and smoke-begrimed walls. The air was heavy with the odors of mold, greasy food and stale beer, none of which was likely to pique his appetite. Nor was he much taken with the antiquarian-minded innkeeper. Aside from the tic, which he could not help, he was grimy and unshaven, and his apron carried stains on top of stains. Rubbing his hands on this limp garment, Mr. Chubb regarded Colin almost affectionately.

“Not many come ’ere today ’n those that did left afore sunset. Ye’ll ’ave a chamber to yerself tonight.”

“That is gratifying,” Colin lied. He cast a glance toward the grease-befogged window and concealed a sigh. The small panes were dark. Any hope of inquiring the path to the main highway was flouted. If he left the inn, he would be in danger of becoming lost all over again. Yet he could not like Chubb, and furthermore he did not trust him. The man put him in mind of all the traveler’s tales he had heard—most of them centering around dark, lonely, deserted inns and unprepossessing landlords with an eye to robbery or murder or both. That host and inn met at least two of these qualifications was undeniable. Colin was not ready to acquit him of the third and fourth. Fortunately, there was a pistol in his greatcoat pocket, and though he was passing weary, if there was not a stout chair or a nightstand to place against the door, he was prepared to remain wakeful through the night.

“Would ye be ’avin’ wine or ale, sor?” inquired the host.

“Ale will do, thanks,” Colin said.

“I’ll be fetchin’ it, sor. We be short o’ ’elp’n...” Mr. Chubb paused at a loud knock on the outer door. His small eyes sparkled. “Maybe ye brought me luck,” he said. “There be another.”

He had not added victim but Colin was ready to supply the missing definition as the host hurried off to answer the door. Hearing his unctuous, “Good evenin’, sor,” Colin envisioned him bowing and rubbing his hands, the actions he had used when he ushered him into the room. He had difficulty smothering a laugh as Mr. Chubb, bowing even more deeply, brought in a tall, slender young man. Leading him to an adjacent table, he rubbed his hands while saying, “Sit ’ere, sor. I’m just after ’elpin’ this ’ere guest’n wot’ll you ’ave to drink. Ale or wine?”

“Wine, my good man, if there’s any fit for my palate,” the newcomer drawled wearily.

“Wine it is, sor.” Mr. Chubb hurried off.

The young man loosed a long sigh and fixing a lackluster eye on Colin, he said wearily, “Are we the only victims then?”

Colin started, then laughed. “I vow you must have peered into my mind. Twas the same thought that occurred to me.”

“Alas, I wish I were so perspicacious.” The stranger smiled. “Think how such an ability would serve one at the gaming tables.”

Colin regarded him interestedly, noting that he was very well dressed. His greatcoat was of fine cloth and stylish. Only two capes graced his shoulders rather than the several attached to Colin’s older coat. The newcomer’s boots were polished to a high shine, and his hair, dark and wavy, was tied with a black ribbon. Though he must have just dismounted, not a lock of it was out of place. He had set a round hat on the table before him rather than the cocked version Colin still wore. In fact, his style and his neatness were enviable, and having seen several equally fashionable young men frequenting the gambling clubs in London, Colin wondered if he might not be a professional gamester.

“Are you a gamester, sir?” he asked.

“I have been, but luck’s not favored me of late.”

“I’m sorry,” Colin said politely.

“I do not repine.” The other shrugged. “Luck has a way of turning. Down one day, up the next. And you, do you gamble?”

Colin shook his head. “No, I am at Oxford.”

“Oh, indeed. But that should not keep you from the tables if you’ve a hankering for them.”

“I haven’t.” Colin shrugged. “Unlike you, I’ve never been particularly lucky at either cards or dice, and so I don’t play.”

“You’re not one to take chances. I can understand that and I admire it, too. I wish it might have been so with me. Though,” he lowered his voice, “’twas quite a chance to take coming to this unsavory hostel.”

Colin leaned forward. “Do you know anything about it?” he whispered.

“Does one have to know anything? One needs only to employ eyes and nose.”

“True.” Colin grimaced. “But I’d no choice. I was lost and my father told me that the roads are reputed to be dangerous, else I should have pressed on. I had every intention of reaching the Hold tonight, save that I took a wrong turning, having made the error of thinking while riding.”

“That is an error... particularly when it brought you here. Do you live far from this place?”

“I do not think it can be too far.” Colin paused as Chubb came back bearing a tray on which was a foaming mug of ale and a glass of wine.

“’Ere ye be, gentlemen, the best o’ my cellar.” Setting down the glasses, he grinned and quitted the room.

“Well,” Colin said, regarding the other man ruefully, “your health, sir.”

“And your’s.” The stranger lifted his drink and taking a sip suddenly hurled the glass across the room. “Faugh, damme me if I’ve ever tasted such!” He wiped a hand across his mouth.

Colin set down his mug. “Was it so bad?”

“Vile, like all else in this miserable inn. If I had any place to go, I’d not stay here another minute.”

“I fear we’ve no choice,” Colin told him ruefully. “’Tis very dark out.”

“I see as well by dark as by daylight,” his companion snapped. “You say that you do not live far from here?”

“Not far, but the road... I think it’s through the forest.”

“I have a nose for direction. If I could bring you to your home, might I have accomodation for the night?”

“If you could, you’d be more than welcome,” Colin said. “But I doubt...”

“Do not doubt.” The stranger rose. “Be assured that if you give me your location, I’ll find it.” Lowering his voice to a half-whisper, he added, “I’d not drink any more of that ale. Tis my opinion both wine and ale are drugged.”

“Do you think so?” Colin demanded, surprised and alarmed at having his own fears corroborated.

“I do, else why are we the only travelers to be honored with mine host’s dubious hospitality?”

“That did occur to me,” Colin admitted. “But are you sure you could find the way?”

“As I have told you, my night vision’s quite remarkable and has served me well in the past.”

“If you really believe...”

“I do,” was the positive reply. “My name, by the way, is Simeon Weir. And you are...?”

“Colin Veringer.”

“Veringer’s Hold!” Weir exclaimed. “But I know it. And we are less than thirty minutes away!”

“You know it! Here’s good fortune,” Colin exclaimed, rising. “Would you be acquainted with my brother Tony, perhaps?”

Weir shook his head. “I am familiar with this part of the country but I have no close acquaintances here. My home’s outside of Edinburgh.”

“That’s quite a distance yet.”

“Yes, I’ve many leagues to ride.” Weir spoke wearily. “And there’ll be small rejoicing when I arrive. My father recently died and my stepmother resents me. She’d rather my young half-brother came into the baronetcy and, in consequence, she’ll be hard put to receive me. I wish I might postpone the visit but I stand to inherit the property so I must be on my way.”

“Need you be there at any given time?” Colin asked, pitying him.

“Any time between now and eternity.” Sir Simeon Weir’s lips twisted mockingly. “Closer to the latter, I’m thinking.”

“Why, will you not remain with us for a day or two... longer if you choose?”

Weir shook his head. “I cannot think I’d be welcome for more than this night.”

“Nonsense, man, you may stay as long as you choose. Perhaps you might come to my sister’s birthday ball.”

“You have a sister?”

“Two.” Colin smiled. “Juliet’s having the birthday and Kathleen’s expecting a birth.”

“And relatives and guests to come. I wish them both happiness, but I cannot think you’ll have room enough for me.” Weir spoke a trifle wistfully.

“Come... the Hold’s large enough for a regiment and has quartered many in times gone by, when we British were at loggerheads with you Scots.”

“Ah, yes,” Weir said with a tinge of mockery. “The King over the water and the ’Forty-five. Such a pother. So much good red blood soaking into the ground.”

Colin regarded him with some little shock. “You’re the first Scot I’ve met who does not...”

“Either bemoan or proudly prate of Culloden?” Weir questioned contemptuously. “You’ve met Highlanders, I fancy. We of the Lowlands are less romantic. We do not sell our souls for a callow charmer with a long tongue, a worthy descendant of the whoring Queen of Scots, who lost her head long before the English clipped it.”

“Lord man, hold your fire,” Colin said, laughing. “All that’s ancient history.”

“Ancient?” Weir stiffened, then relaxed. “But of course, auid memories are far too long in Scotland. Meanwhile we’re putting off our departure. Let us pay our charming host and have done.”

❖

Despite Sir Simeon’s assurances, Colin, riding after him through the dense forest, had been full of qualms. Once they had left the inn, he was more than a little inclined to doubt his companion’s vaunted night vision. Much to his surprise, they had not strayed from the path often, and when they had, that could be blamed on Miranda. She had been acting skittish ever since they left the inn, and Colin suspected her of wanting to devote her attention to oats, water and sleep. However it was also possible that she was being made nervous by an overabundance of annoying and unexpectedly brave bats.

For the last quarter of an hour or more, they had been swooping out of trees and skimming over the heads of the horses, which Colin found very odd and a trifle unnerving. The bats at the Hold preferred the heights. Colin wished heartily that these would have been of a similar persuasion. Though he could hardly see their dark shapes, he heard their shrill twittering. It sounded unexpectedly eerie in the darkness. He wondered if it disturbed his guide as much as himself. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Weir suddenly cried out and waved his arms as if warding them off. There was a rush of wings, a loud squealing of many bat voices and then stillness. To Colin’s amazement, they all dispersed and, at the same time, Miranda, uttering a high whinny, reared. It took all his strength to bring her down without unseating himself.