Time After Time (262 page)

“No, that will do for now,” Marshall said. “I’d rather you not cast your accounts on my boots.”

Perkins scowled.

“Take a rest,” Marshall suggested. “We’ll soon be stopping for the night.”

“Thank you, sir.” Perkins looked decidedly peaked, but neatly stowed away all the papers before leaning his head back against the squabs.

Marshall took up the Thomas Gerald file and flipped through it. He once again scanned the sole report his investigator had been able to generate about Gerald’s departure from the penal colony, having fulfilled his ten-year sentence for the willful destruction of Marshall’s father’s property — his prize mare and her foal. The information was now several years old. He could be anywhere, Marshall thought in frustration — Brazil, or Haiti … or England.

He closed his eyes, and the whole horrible scene was there, as though the incident had been yesterday, not twelve years ago. In his mind’s eye, he saw the mare, Priscilla, past due for her foaling, and the grooms worried about her. He saw Thomas Gerald, a young man just a couple years older than Marshall, laughing and jovial as he joked with the other grooms, tender and concerned when he looked after the ailing Priscilla.

And then Marshall saw himself: a boy of thirteen, bored with the confines of the schoolroom, desperate to prove his maturity, and longing to earn his father’s approval. His newfound interest in botany consumed his adolescent mind. He’d read a few books and had begun helping the gardener in the greenhouse, observing the way the man planted seeds in different fashions and watching carefully as he grafted one plant onto another. In short order, Marshall became the embodiment of the phrase about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing.

Priscilla’s swollen belly had the stable in a tizzy, and the duke on tenterhooks. But Marshall remembered the midwife’s words he’d once overheard to the blacksmith, offering the man’s wife a tincture of mugwort and juniper berries to help ease her birthing, and an idea took shape in his mind.

Then Priscilla ate from Thomas Gerald’s gentle hands. The mare convulsed. And then she screamed. Marshall pressed his hands to his eyes — dear
God
, he could still hear that horse’s scream. Marshall had never been so scared in all his young life. He squeezed himself into a corner, where he remained unnoticed as every hand in the stable came running.

So much blood. At first, Priscilla had thrashed and protested against the restraining hands that held her down while she was examined in her stall. Marshall heard the head groom yelling for a towel — he was going to try to pull the foal free. Gradually, Priscilla’s cries gave way to piteous whinnies, until even those declined into gentle moans, and then silence. Horrible, heavy silence.

They sent for His Grace, and explained to Marshall’s father that Priscilla’s womb had ruptured. Both mare and foal had been lost.

His father was terribly distraught. Marshall remembered his pale face, the concerned crease of his brow as he looked into the poor mare’s stall, how he pressed a handkerchief to his lips and then quickly walked away.

Marshall himself slipped out of the stable a short time later. He spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening wandering through the woods, throwing accusatory looks at every herb he encountered. They were supposed to help, not hurt! His beloved flora had betrayed him.

The next morning, Marshall awoke to a house in an uproar. When the mare’s body had been removed and the stall cleaned, a jar had been discovered under a layer of straw, containing the remains of an unknown sticky substance.

Someone had fed Priscilla poison. Someone had deliberately killed His Grace’s favorite mare. If there was one thing in the world the Duke of Monthwaite was passionate about, it was his horses. The gruesome way in which his most prized bit of horseflesh had met her demise was beyond all reckoning. The criminal would be punished. Severely.

Another groom said he recalled seeing Thomas Gerald feeding the horse by hand, but never imagined he’d do something so heinous. Sticky stains found on Gerald’s shirt cuffs gave weight to the accusation. For his atrocious crime, the fifteen-year-old groom was transported to Van Diemen’s Land for ten years on the labor gangs.

The carriage pulled to a stop. Marshall opened his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. Somewhere in the world, possibly even in England, roamed a man who could rightfully blame Marshall for ruining his life. Such a man was dangerous and had to be found before he attempted something foolish. Marshall scrawled a note on the report to remind Perkins to call in yet another investigator, since this one had lost the trail.

• • •

In Leicestershire, Marshall stopped at the estate of David Hornsby, the younger son of an earl. He had the good fortune of a sire who’d acquired a spare estate to give his youngest offspring.

As a result, the estate’s master epitomized the idle rich. Mr. Hornsby was of an age with Marshall, and lived well off the income of his land. With a competent steward taking care of the estate’s day-to-day operations, Hornsby had no purpose in life other than pursuing pleasure and fulfilling his own whims.

One of his few redeeming qualities was a kindred leaning toward botany. They had attended lectures together at the Royal Society and struck up something of a friendship, founded only on their shared intellectual pursuits. The botany community was a small one, and Marshall would not turn his nose up at a man who was as eager as he was to see progress in the field.

Marshall was shown into Hornsby’s library, the walls of which were adorned with framed prints of local wildflowers.

“Monthwaite!” Hornsby sprang from the leather chair in which he’d been ensconced with a book and a bottle of brandy. Marshall noted this last item with distaste, considering it was just past noon. Hornsby extended his hand for Marshall’s greeting and pumped the duke’s arm vigorously. “Good to see you, Monty, good to see you. How fare the great swaths of the kingdom in your possession?” The man’s face, flushed with drink, clashed against his yellow-checked jacket.

Hornsby had no sooner returned to his seat than he sprang up again. Most men as far into their cups as he appeared to be — judging by the alarmingly low level in the brandy decanter — would have been half-asleep by now. However, Marshall’s host appeared as energetic as if he’d just awoken from a refreshing night’s sleep.

Hornsby strode on thick legs to an oak table standing near a large picture window overlooking the expansive gardens on the back of the house. He unrolled a map and gestured for Marshall to join him at the table. He jabbed a chubby finger into the map. “I believe I’ve located a suitable site for the herbarium.”

“Coventry?”

Hornsby nodded. “London would be the obvious choice, of course, but land there is dear and hard to come by. I thought,” he said, turning his glassy brown eyes on Marshall, “a centralized location would be a nice gesture.”

“To whom?” Marshall asked.

Hornsby shrugged and smiled like the spoiled little boy he was. “Everyone.”

Everyone
Marshall took to mean the entire population of Britain, and indeed the world, to whom their proposed herbarium would be open.

For a long moment, he held Hornsby’s gaze. His eager face seemed desperate for Marshall’s approval. Though they had been born the same year and Marshall only a few months before Hornsby, Marshall still felt as though Hornsby looked to him for guidance, like an older brother. He regarded the map again. His lips turned up in a slow, lazy smile.

“You might be on to something,” he drawled. He nodded, affirming his statement. “Yes, let’s go have a look at the land you have in mind.”

A wide grin broke across Hornsby’s face. “Really?” he breathed rapturously.

Marshall took a step back and away from the fumes rolling off his friend.

“I’ll have my bags ready in a trice,” Hornsby said. As he hurried from the room he called over his shoulder, “I know a good inn where we can stay tonight.”

Chapter Three

Isabelle gave the stew a stir. She wiped her palms against the faded linen apron around her waist, then peeked into the oven to check on the roasting chickens. Everything was coming along nicely, but a few customers had been kept waiting longer than she — or they — liked.

In the month she’d been working in the kitchen at the George, word of the inn’s uncommonly good cook quickly spread beyond the village. The inn now often saw customers who came just to dine, rather than to stay the night or spend the evening drinking in the common room.

The first dish to win the locals’ acclaim had been her savory beef stew. Initially, Isabelle made use of the last bit of ale in the barrels as the base for her concoction. The dish had become so popular, however, Mr. Davies now purchased ale specifically for cooking.

A serving girl stuck her head in the kitchen. “Is the stew ready yet, Miz Smith? Some of the blokes are startin’ to grumble.”

“Almost, Gretchen.” Isabelle fished out a slice of carrot and bit it. Still a touch too firm in the center. “Ten more minutes,” she told the girl. At the servant’s harried expression, Isabelle snapped, “I could give it to them raw, but they wouldn’t like that, either.”

“I s’pose not,” Gretchen muttered. “But they’re ’plainin’, and I’m the one has to hear it.”

Isabelle’s annoyance fell away, and she gave the girl a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you hide in here with me for a few minutes?” She blew at a wayward strand of hair that had fallen loose from the cap containing her unruly tresses.

The serving girl gave her an appreciative look and stepped farther into the kitchen. It was a large room, but cramped for all that.

A brick oven was set into one wall, pouring out heat as a steady supply of bread went in and came out. Beside the oven was a long counter on which the dough was mixed, kneaded, and set aside to rise.

A large table for preparing meats and vegetables dominated the center of the room. Above it hung a black iron rack covered with saucepans, stockpots, and skillets. Beside the pantry, a door opened on stairs leading to the modest wine cellar.

Another wall had a sink and scullery counter. The fourth side of the room held the massive stove and roasting oven where Isabelle toiled her hours away.

Isabelle directed Gretchen to pull fresh loaves from the brick oven with the long bread paddle, while she cubed a cut of beef for another pot of stew. A boy came in carrying dirty plates. The omnipresent rumble of talking and laughter was momentarily bright and clear until the door swung shut again, dampening the noise.

“Sammy,” Isabelle said to the boy, “run to the larder and fetch me some suet.” The boy dropped the dishes to the counter with a clatter and scampered out the door.

Isabelle dumped the beef cubes into a hot skillet to brown. She washed her hands, wiped them on her apron, and checked the stew again. Perfect.

“Gretchen,” she called, “stew’s ready.” She glanced over to where the girl had set the steaming, fresh loaves on the bread counter and was struggling to get an unbaked loaf into the oven.

“Bollocks! I forgot to flour the paddle,” Gretchen exclaimed.

“Do you need help?” Isabelle ladled up a bowl of stew, set it on the counter, and reached for another empty dish.

“I can manage.” The serving girl gave up trying to shake the dough free of the paddle and moved right to the oven, where she attempted to force the loaf off with her hand.

She shouldn’t do that
, Isabelle thought with trepidation. “Careful,” she called. “Pull the whole thing back out and I’ll — ”

Too late.

“Yeouch!” Gretchen snatched her hand back and grabbed it with the other. The paddle clattered to the floor and the stubborn loaf of dough rolled traitorously onto the stones.

Isabelle hurried to the girl. Three of Gretchen’s fingers were red and one was already blistering. The serving girl kept up a steady stream of cries and curses. Isabelle dragged her to the washing station and plunged her hand into the basin of rinse water.

Gretchen yowled.

Isabelle made a shushing sound. “The water will cool the skin.”

“What is going on in here?”

Isabelle looked up. Mr. Davies, her employer and the proprietor of the George, cast a look of wide-eyed alarm over the chaotic disarray in his usually orderly kitchen. His balding pate glistened with sweat. He grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and ran it over his head and mutton-chopped cheeks.

“Gretchen burned her hand,” Isabelle explained.

He huffed in annoyance, pressing his massive fists to his hips. Mr. Davies was a large man, but Isabelle would never have called him fat. He gave one the impression of a rock-filled sack. “Well, get it out of the basin and get that food to the customers!” Mr. Davies ordered.

Isabelle shot her employer a disapproving look, but released Gretchen. The girl gingerly patted her burned hand dry, lifted a bowl of stew, and set it down again, howling with pain.

“Would you shut it?” Mr. Davies hissed. “We’ve got gents out there. You want them to think there’s a murder going on?”

Isabelle drew the weeping Gretchen back to the basin and once again plunged her hand into the water. Mr. Davies was usually a jovial man and was not an unkind master of his establishment. There was a larger-than-usual crowd out there tonight, though, so Isabelle tried to ignore his insensitivity to Gretchen’s predicament. “She can’t work anymore tonight,” Isabelle said in a reasonable tone.

“Who’s going to do the serving, then?” the man asked. His dark blue eyes were wide and his gray brows shot up into his forehead. “I’m already short-handed. Gretchen’s the only girl in tonight, as is. We’ve got honest-to-God blue bloods in the private dining room who need seeing to, and half the common room’s going to die of barrel fever on me if we don’t get food into their bellies to sop up the ale.”

“My sister would come help!” Sammy, the dish boy, piped up. “She needs a few shillings for a bit o’ ribbon she’s got her eye on.”

“Go get her, then,” Mr. Davies instructed. The boy dashed out. “In the meantime,” he said, turning to Isabelle, “you do the serving.”