Peter Loon (21 page)

There was another shout from one of the Claydens.

“I'll be fine,” said Nora, which seemed an astonishing pronouncement to Peter. She did not look at him, but stared at her feet. A secondary sort of sob occasionally choked her voice, but she seemed to have regained herself.

Peter wanted to reassure her that the parson would be back, that she was with the Claydens now, for a time, which was to be preferred to being with a young man who couldn't even find his own uncle, who had never been to Newcastle before, and who hadn't the smallest notion how many people there were in the world. An apology died in his throat.

“Mr. Loon?” came the voice again, and he caught sight of Martha looking off in another direction. Before she could see where he sprang from, he leaped up the bank and walked several paces to his left. Then he shouted back and waved.

Martha was startled to see him there. “My goodness, Mr. Loon, we thought you had gone hiding yourself. We've all found James, but you and Nora.” This last thought was followed by a small look of embarrassment, as if something unintended had been implied.

With a simple gesture, Peter gave a surprisingly expert indication that he needed to speak quietly. “Miss Tillage was feeling weary and is resting down by the shore,” he said, when he approached her, a little dismayed at how easily he contorted the truth.

“Oh, the poor dear!” said Martha. “Have we exhausted her so?” and she would have gone looking for Nora, but Peter impressed upon her that Miss Tillage was sensitive about her fragile condition, and while he spoke, a renewed sense of guilt and confusion swept over him. “Ah, well,” said Martha sweetly. “We'll let her rest, then, away from Emily and James. You're kind to continue helping her.”

Peter never looked at Martha, but took a sudden, if not heartfelt interest in knowing where James had hidden. He glanced back to the shore before he followed her over the knoll.

They did not play hide-and-seek anymore, but returned to the place where they had eaten and spoke quietly about unimportant things till Nora reappeared without explanation or apology. Her expression may have been difficult for the others to read, but Peter saw in it the mirror of his own humiliation and regret.

They were a decidedly quieter group on their way back to the Clayden house. Peter caught only a single glance from Nora, and he suffered for what she thought
he
thought about her.

SOME EXCITEMENT GREETED THE YOUNG CLAYDENS AND THEIR
guests upon their return, for as they neared the house, half a dozen horsemen entered the yard at a near gallop, to the accompaniment of the family's dogs, which bayed and barked. The riders were all well-dressed men in fine clothes and broad capes and polished boots, and one wore a sword at his side. Four of them wore wigs beneath their hats, and the others–younger men–wore their hair pulled back in a simple queue.

One of these younger men–a tall, broad shouldered
Hector
–broke away from his fellows to greet the Clayden ladies and James. He bowed over the young women's hands as they received him, and even the practical Emily appeared pleased by his attention. Martha, however, he saved for last, and he lingered with her, and affected such a degree of tenderness over this particular greeting that it could not be missed if a man had only his ears to serve him. Her round pretty face blushed to see him, and she fairly glowed to have him lean close to her as he asked after her health and that of her family in Falmouth.

“We're all quite well, thank you for asking, Mr. Kavanagh,” she beamed. She was not a short woman, but she appeared dainty beside him.

Mr. Kavanagh flashed a look of slight interest in the direction of Peter, and another of slightly more interest toward the slender figure of Nora Tillage.

“Sir,” said Martha, with smooth formality, “may I introduce Mr. Peter Loon. Mr. Loon, may I introduce Mr. Edward Kavanagh.”

“I am pleased to know any friend of the Claydens, Mr. Loon,” said Mr. Kavanagh. He put his broad hand out and gripped Peter's firmly.

Peter felt great physical power in the grip. “Yes,” he said, daunted by the man's presence and energy, and still shaken by his recent experience with Nora by the shore. “Thank you. I too.”

When Nora was introduced to the man, he greeted her with more formality, though with all his charm and gallantry at full tilt; the result was that she could hardly speak to him. Charm or no charm, Emily must have thought this enough, for she stepped up to rescue Nora, asking Mr. Kavanagh when she could expect to ride his horse Malborough. The man laughed and declared it would be worth his life if the Captain caught him letting her ride such an animal. Emily pretended a comic disgust with him, but the thing was neatly done and Kavanagh turned his bright light from Nora back to Martha, who was quite prepared for it.

During all this courtliness, the gentlemen with whom Kavanagh arrived were instructing Ebulon Magnamous how to tend their animals, and Ebulon, who may have known more about horses than all of them put together, dutifully nodded his head and accepted these mandates with grace.

“Edward,” called one of these men–an older fellow, whose florid complexion contrasted unflatteringly with the snow white of his wig.

“I will see you before we leave,” said Mr. Kavanagh in the direction of the younger Claydens, but he was plainly speaking to Martha.

“You might escort a lady to the door,” suggested Emily, and she gestured in such a way that Mr. Kavanagh was constrained to take her arm and obey. The effect of this was that both groups tromped into the kitchen together. The wigged gentlemen did not balk at this entrance as, even then, it had been a long-standing tradition in the district, taken from old Anglia, that strangers and peddlers come to the front door, and that besides these, only the ostentatious and the crude insist on greeting people at the main entrance.

The kitchen was a madhouse, with the younger Claydens shouting for their grandfather and the gentlemen greeting Mrs. Magnamous in loud voices to be heard over the young folk and Mrs. Magnamous complaining more loudly still that the bread would fall with all the noise. A dog had got in with the crowd and was racing about, his tail whipping things from the kitchen table, till the door was opened and one of the older men booted him down the steps.

“What! are the British returned?” came a new voice above the rabble, and Captain Clayden stood in the doorway, shouting half in delight, half in astonishment. “Good gracious! What actions!”

One of the wigged gentlemen stepped through the press and greeted the Captain with a handshake and a “Pleased to see you again, sir.”

“Come in, come in!” declared the elderly fellow. “Get out of Mrs. Magnamous's kitchen before she puts you in a pie!”

“The bread will fall!” she said again.

As the group of men followed Captain Clayden from the kitchen to his den, Mr. Kavanagh turned to Peter and said, cordially, “Come with us, Mr. Loon. This may interest you.” The handsome man glanced from Peter to Martha, and it was clear that Mr. Kavanagh himself was interested in finding more about this young man who was spending time in the company of the Clayden cousin.

“What?” said the older ruddy-faced newcomer, and he looked Peter up and down as he would a horse for sale. “I dare say,” he ventured, though he sounded unconvinced.

They continued to empty from the kitchen, when one wigged fellow tripped suddenly and fell face forward. James, whose foot had been in the wrong place, helped the man up and apologized profusely, but he told Peter later that he felt avenged upon the fellow for kicking his dog.

There were not chairs enough for everyone in the den, but the Captain and the two eldest (or at least the
grandest
fellows) took seats and a fourth chair was brought in from the hall. The others stood about the hearth, which barely glowed, or before the book-lined shelves. Mr. Kavanagh pulled a volume from one of these and thumbed it with the look of serious curiosity, but before the conversation had very much gotten under way, he closed the book and put it back in its place. Peter, standing next to Mr. Kavanagh, envied the man his ease and carelessness.

The den was a sanctuary of immaculate comfort. Elm trees shaded the house, and the sun touched the windows with a fitful radiance. Lamplight set a golden tone to the dark furniture, and ensconced in his lair of books, Captain Clayden was the gracious host. “I would offer you wine, gentlemen,” he said, “but a tumbler of ale would seem fit for an afternoon visit and a spirited ride.”

“That would answer the humors, splendidly,” said one of the seated men.

“James!” called the Captain, but his grandson was at the doorway and he simply shouted, “I'll get them,” and was gone.

The old man noticed Peter, then, and twisted up his mouth in an expression of inner debate. Peter felt out of place, and thought it perhaps impolitic for him to be there, however boldly Mr. Kavanagh had invited him. But Captain Clayden simply nodded seriously and said, “Have you met Mr. Loon, gentlemen,” as courteously as could be, and indicated the young man with a respectful gesture.

The five pairs of eyes that had not yet had the pleasure turned to Peter with varying degrees of doubt and inquisitiveness. Mr. Kavanagh nodded and made a sound to signify that he had already observed the niceties.

“Mr. Loon,” said Captain Clayden, and he indicated the other gentlemen in a counterclockwise manner. “Mr. Ethan Flye, Mr. Benjamin Shortwell, Mr. Harold Whitehouse, Mr. Morrison Marston, and Captain Elihu McQuigg. Gentlemen, Mr. Peter Loon. He is looking for a lost uncle, it seems, so if any of you know of an Obed Winslow, you could do the lad a favor.”

The men nearest Peter offered their hands, and two of those seated half-rose and nodded. Someone mumbled that the name Obed Winslow had a familiar ring to it, but the others shook their heads. Captain McQuigg–he with the florid expression and the sword at his side–simply grunted and waved a negligent hand.

“My pleasure,” said Peter, after hearing this nicety from several of the men.

‘‘Mine
will be the pleasure, which is more to the point, boy,” said Captain McQuigg, “if you are prepared to ride with us to New Milford.”

Peter could see that Captain Clayden had expected something like this, and that he was none too pleased to have his expectations so completely and immediately realized. “Is there hunting in New Milford, these days, Captain?” he asked dryly.

“There will be, yes, Captain,” pronounced Captain McQuigg.

“There are those who've run their game, that'll be run themselves,” said Mr. Whitehouse darkly.

“Yes,” drawled the host. “I've heard what happened in New Milford.”

“Then you know why we are here, Captain!” declared Captain McQuigg.

“I understand the spur, but you must make clear the purpose.”

“To chastise these scoundrels!” exclaimed Captain McQuigg.