Chapter 18
Some hours later, Kit walked along the side of the road, her head down and her cap pulled so low she could barely see where to step. It had rained during the night, clearing the air, and though the path before her was quite muddy in places the entire village seemed cleaner. The scent of wet grass and soil, the smell of the country, was refreshing.
It was quiet. She saw no men in the fields. While the women might be working in their homes, were all the men at the meeting? A chicken, followed by her chicks, picked at the sparse grass next to a cottage Kit hurried by.
She had gone a good distance before she noticed several men entering a barn next to a large cottage at the end of the village, on the edge of a field where wooly ewes grazed with their lambs in the sun. As the men disappeared into the worn wooden building, Kit followed silently behind, staying in back, hidden from view by a large plow. A circle of nearly twenty men engaged in heated conversation sat in the middle of the wide space. A few stood at the edges leaning against wooden posts, listening. Martin and John were not among them.
“I say we must join with Oliver and let the government know the people are tired of the laws the rich lords force upon us,” said one man dressed in worn trousers and a woolen jacket. “We might send a petition to London.”
“Aye, Isaac,” said another. “We dinna have any say in them laws! ’Tis got to change, that.”
“Dear members of the country delegation,” said a man Kit recognized as Mr. Oliver. She vividly recalled his whiskered face and light red hair from the Dog Inn. “I represent the Radicals of London, as ye know. We argue for parliamentary reform that would change your circumstances for the better. But petitions will not bring the change you seek. There must be action! I have just come from Nottingham, from a meeting with our good Captain Brandreth and the others there who stand with us. They are prepared to fight. And my friend at the ironworks John Onion tells me there are many men at the factory who will join with us. The time is ripe to—”
A loud bang sounded as the door of the barn was thrown open, barely missing Kit where she lurked. She jerked away just as a portly man holding a pistol in his outstretched hand entered with two men behind him, one much taller and in the dark blue and white uniform of the King’s Hussars. The man with the pistol said, “I am the Sheffield magistrate, and this gathering plotting action against the government is at an end. You’re all under arrest!” The magistrate turned to the man in uniform. “General Byng, please place these men under arrest and transport them to Wakefield for questioning.”
The would-be revolutionaries scattered, fleeing in all directions like rats before a fire. One escaped through a side door, followed by another. Then another. The general and the man at his side began grabbing whomever they could lay their hands on.
Kit waited, pressed against the barn wall until she saw a chance to escape. Dashing out the front door, she looked frantically around, wondering where to run. A fleeing revolutionary knocked her to the ground.
“Kit!”
She recognized Martin’s voice, but before she could rise his strong arms lifted her from the ground. She twisted to stare into his anger-filled eyes, dark and menacing.
“Martin… ”
“Come, I’ll get you out of here,” he growled. John ran up, and Martin said, “Hurry. Into that copse of trees,” indicating a cluster of birches a short distance away. “We’ll wait until they depart.”
The confrontations inside the barn were loud in Kit’s ears as Martin dragged her off. Just as he’d pushed her behind a large rock in a stand of birch trees, a pistol shot shattered the air. Kit’s heart pounded in her chest, and she glanced at her husband. Anger was reflected in his tight jaw and furrowed brow, and he glared at her clothing.
John peered over the boulder and said, “They’ve rounded up some of the men.”
Martin continued to study Kit, his blue eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. His voice was low and harsh. “What are you doing here, Kit? And why are you dressed like that?”
Still panting, she spouted her prepared alibi. “I only wanted to be less noticeable as I sketched. Then I was drawn to the barn and the conversations of the men.” She glared back at him in defiance. “I was only observing.”
“You cause me to wonder,” he said with a frown. “Perhaps I should not have brought you here. You might have been arrested, or worse. For all that’s holy, the magistrate might have killed you with that pistol he was waving about.”
She tried to look contrite, but it clearly didn’t work. He said, “Perhaps I should send you back to London.”
London? Did she want to go back to London? Strangely, the thought did not appeal. She wanted to be with him, traitor though he was.
John, who’d been keeping watch as Martin scolded her, cast Kit a sympathetic glance. Peering once more over the rock he took that moment to announce, “They’ve gone, sir. I think we can leave.”
“She could have been killed!”
Martin sat in a nearby tavern with John, each man holding a tankard of ale. Much as he disliked the taste, he was downing the liquid just to calm his nerves. The tavern keeper had just told them that ten men, including William Oliver, had been arrested and taken to Wakefield for questioning, but Oliver was seen walking free in town not a half hour later. The others had yet to be released.
An ache gripped his chest at the thought of losing Kit. He couldn’t imagine being without her. His wife. His kitten. His life. The redheaded vixen had captured his heart, so now he must protect her—even from her own foolishness, it seemed.
At the moment he was so angry he’d had to leave, unable to remain with her for fear he would shake her until her brain rattled. The memory of Kit on the ground had been all too familiar, a vivid reminder of Elise lying on that Paris street so long ago, of the nightmare he’d had in London. It had been the specter of harm to Kit that he had dreaded from the beginning. This was why he’d brought her with him, to protect her, though he was clearly failing. Again.
“Aye, ’tis possible,” John said. “The magistrate seemed the excitable sort.”
“It was reckless for her to be there. I wonder too what she heard of the men’s conversations. I’d prefer she knew nothing of what may lie ahead.”
“She did not tell ye?”
“No. She only spoke of men arguing as the magistrate and General Byng arrived. I do not think she was there long.” He glanced up from his ale and added, “Oliver’s quick freedom after the arrest confirms he is working with the magistrate. There is no other explanation for why he is loose and the others still held. ”
“’Tis not surprising,” John said. “He had that letter from Sidmouth’s brother introducing him to all the local magistrates. ’Twould seem he’s made use of it.”
“This part of England is a pot ready to boil,” Martin said. “It won’t be long before something happens.”
“Aye,” John agreed. “Brandreth will see to that.”
“We must do something to prevent it. I have a few ideas—”
“Oh, ye remind me, sir. A message arrived from London,” John said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a letter bearing the seal of the Marquess of Ormond.
Martin tore it open. “I hope this is the answer I’ve been looking for, the chance for us to intervene. If Brandreth and Oliver are working toward the date they’ve set for their march on London, I am hopeful we…” He read the message and his heart sank. Staring at his tankard of ale, he saw nothing and let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Not the news ye were looking for, sir?” John inquired.
“Damnation. No, it isn’t. The Prince Regent does not want me to confront Oliver directly or make our identity known. We are just to observe, working only from behind the scenes if we wish to discourage the villagers from participating.” He crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. “I suspect Prinny is curious to know how far this will go, content to watch, knowing he has the power to quash any rebellion.”
“’Tis frustrating,” murmured John. “To be forced to watch while Oliver’s wolf approaches the sheep.”
“Yes, Brandreth is a wolf. While I find myself having some pity for him, pauper that he is, he is more worrisome even than his leader. Find out who manages the ironworks in Ripley, John. It’s time we paid the man a visit.”
Badly shaken by the debacle at the barn and the argument with Martin that followed, Kit tried to settle her mind by finishing her sketch of the man called the Nottingham Captain. She worked from memory, her pencil moving quickly over the paper as she focused on recreating his eyes. The intensity of that gaze had been unusual, striking. Perhaps even a little frightening. And as she captured his eyes in the sketch, her mind strayed to the last words she’d exchanged with Martin.
“You disobeyed me, Kit. It might have cost you your life. Can you not see it is dangerous for you to go about the village dressed as a lad and hiding out in barns where men are meeting? Are you perchance aping Lady Ormond? Did the idea for this masquerade come from her?”
Dismayed, she’d lowered her head. “No. It was my idea. Of course, you are right. I did not realize it would be dangerous.”
That wasn’t quite true. She did know if she were to enter a barn full of men plotting treason there was the possibility of danger, which was the reason she’d gone disguised. And because she would not have been admitted otherwise.
“That is why I confined you to the village and the inn, Kit. Much is going on in the Midlands just now. I am trying to keep you safe. You must trust me.”
She’d seen his exasperation. And, she realized, anger. Perhaps like Ormond’s for his wife, the emotion had its origin in a need to protect what was dear. Did he love her? She had given Martin her love. Could she give him her trust?
“I do want to trust you, Martin,” she said. But there is so much I do not understand.
“I wonder if you do. Perhaps I should send you back to London,” he repeated. “At least there Ormond has the resources to see to your safety. ”
He’d stormed out, leaving her shaking. Would he send her away? She couldn’t imagine being sent from him, now that she realized she loved him, now that she wanted his love. No, she would not go. She would stay with him. Perhaps she could persuade him to leave off this treachery.
Deep within her she believed he was a good man. But she had trusted her father to care for her and Anne, had trusted Baron Egerton to provide for her, had trusted Lord Rutledge to be honorable. She would not trust so easily now.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Rising, she opened it to find a smiling George Weightman carrying a tray.
“Yer husband has sent ye tea, ma’am. And he’s ordered a bath for ye, which the boys are bringing behind me.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting aside her sketch. “Tea and a bath would be lovely.”
It was a marvel, really, Martin’s kindness. He’d been so angry stomping out of their rooms. Or was this bath to prepare her to leave for London? Fear and anger warred within her. He’d confined her to their rooms and might be sending her back to London. Casting her away like an unruly child. Hadn’t he been at the barn where the men were meeting? Likely it was only luck that he wasn’t inside when the magistrate arrived. He, too, could have been arrested or shot. But, of course he’d refused to tell her why he was there when she’d asked, though he insisted on knowing all she had done that morning. She had not been candid in telling him how she’d discovered the meeting, but then what could she say—that she worried the man she loved was a traitor to the Crown?
An hour later, Kit had bathed and was dressed in a blue day gown. Her nerves much calmer, she had just set down her empty teacup when Nanny Weightman appeared at the door to tell her she had a visitor, a solicitor named John Highmore. Kit knew no man by that name, and she could not imagine what business a solicitor might have with her, but she thought it best to learn why he had come.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weightman. Could you send him up and arrange for more tea?”
The proprietress graciously agreed, and soon there was another knock at the door.
Kit welcomed the older gentleman into the sitting room as he handed her his card. Dressed like a country squire, in a soft brown wool jacket and tan trousers, the slight man with silver hair appeared frail. His face was kindly, however, and just now it bore a smile as if he were greatly pleased with himself.
She accepted his card and directed him to one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace. “Mr. Highmore, please be comfortable. I’ve ordered some tea. Have you come far?”
“Thank you, Lady Powell. Yes, it has been a long journey.” Setting down the case he carried, he focused on her with a satisfied look. “It’s taken me a long time and many inquiries to find you.”
Kit was surprised. Everyone in Pentridge knew her as Mrs. Donet. “Sir, how do you know me?”
“Oh, I have known of you for years, my lady. You see, I represented your late husband, Lord Egerton.”
“The baron?” No one had mentioned her first husband since she and Mary discussed him briefly in London.
The older man nodded and leaned down to open his case.
“How did you know to find me here?”
“Ah…that, too, is a Canterbury story,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “After several inquiries that led nowhere, and remembering the baron once remarked you and your sister had a nanny named Abigail Darkin, I searched for her. That took some time. When I finally found her, she was quite guarded. When I managed to convince her I only meant you good, she sent me to Lady Ormond. Now, there’s a smart one. Lady Ormond demanded to see all the records. Fearing I would not find you without her assistance but being assured of your friendship with the marchioness, I complied. She was the one who told me I could find the former Lady Egerton at the White Horse Inn under the name Katherine Donet. Mrs. Donet to be precise.”
Kit was amazed at the journey this man had taken to find her. “And why would you be looking for me? The baron’s estate was settled long ago. As you must know, I took very little from him, which soon dwindled to nothing at all.”
“I represented Lord Egerton in matters of his country estates, my dear. He wished to keep them separate.”
“You are not the London solicitor who spoke with me upon the baron’s death.” Kit spoke her recollection aloud. That man, dour-faced and unpleasant, had told her in no uncertain terms she would be receiving only a pittance from the baron’s holdings. He did not have the kind demeanor of this one.
“No. That was by the baron’s design. You see, my lady, the baron was quite fond of you, even before your marriage. He would have offered for you even if the circumstances—your father’s death—had been different. He wanted to provide for you. Being aware of his advanced age and knowing of his sons’…proclivities, he thought it best his provision be accomplished outside the normal channels. Before you’d even married, he settled a fund upon you and asked me to handle it. His instructions were to see that you had the money upon his death. The sum has grown quite large, I am happy to say.”
“But it has been so long since he died. How can this be?”
“Well, it took a while for me to become aware the baron died. My home is some counties away from London, and he and I were not always in regular contact. Then I had to deal with the business of tying up his affairs. By the time I traveled to London to find you, the trail was quite cold. ”
Kit was shocked. She’d had no idea the old baron, who in many ways was like a grandfather, had felt so strongly. But hadn’t he always told her not to worry, that he would take care of her? He must have realized the perfidy of his sons and how ungenerous they would be. He had not violated her trust after all.
“How large is the fund, sir?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
Kit’s hand went to her throat and she took a deep breath. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the generosity of the man she first called husband. “Oh, my.” She drew her lips together, fighting tears. If she had not been sitting down she might have fainted. “Twenty thousand? I had no idea.”
“No, I was certain you did not. Before I spoke with Miss Darkin and found Lady Ormond, I tried to reach you at the home of your brother-in-law, Lord Rutledge.”
Alarmed, Kit blurted out, “You didn’t tell him I am here, did you?”
“Oh, no, my lady. I did not tell him the nature of my business at all. And he told me nothing either. It was Lady Ormond who kindly explained your new marriage and where I could find you.”
Relieved, Kit listened as the man continued.
“The funds are on deposit in your name with the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street in London. Originally I placed it in the name of Katherine, Lady Egerton, but I have had that changed to Lady Katherine Powell in light of your subsequent marriage to Sir Martin.”
“ Sir Martin?”
“Why, yes,” the older man said, looking puzzled. “Your husband.”
“Of course.” Kit feigned a calm exterior but her heart was jumping in her chest. The title for her husband shocked her. How did she not know he’d been knighted? This changed everything. A knight would not rise against the very crown that had bestowed such an honor upon him, would he?
Oh, Martin, have I misjudged you? Her eyes grew moist.
Mr. Highmore reached down to his case and pulled from it a folder containing a sheaf of papers that he handed to her. “These documents provide evidence of all I have told you, my lady: the instructions of the baron, the original sum, the accounting for its growth under my management and the new deposit with the bank in London. I trust all is to your satisfaction?”
Kit hurriedly skimmed the papers. “Yes, it’s all here, just as you say.” Looking up, she added, “I cannot tell you how much this means to me! It gives me great joy to know that the baron did not forget me.”
“I thought it might, my lady. Even though the money is now your husband’s, from what I know of the Powell family, Sir Martin needs none of your money. I would like to believe he will give it to you freely so that you may do as you please, which was what the baron intended. By the by, may I congratulate you upon your new marriage?”
“You may,” Kit replied. The reality of the money and the baron’s kindness had begun to sink in, and a broad smile spread across her face. She finally had the means to be independent. Just what she’d always wanted! But what should have been a moment of triumph was not. Did she truly want to be alone? Martin was now her husband in truth, and she didn’t want to be free of him. The man she had chosen in a moment of weakness was a man she wanted in an hour of strength. She only wished the money had come sooner. Perhaps she could have given Anne a better life and taken her away from the cruel Rutledge.
“Mr. Highmore, thank you for traveling so far to give me this wonderful news.”
“My pleasure, my lady. It is only what my friend the baron wanted for you.” Eyeing her with benevolence he added, “ Sometimes when a man takes a wife late in life, especially one much younger than he, there is a special fondness for that woman, an appreciation for her character that would see beyond her youth or his age. Such was the love the baron had for you.”
She’d never realized. Whisking away the few tears that had stolen down her cheeks, Kit smiled at the solicitor and grasped his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Highmore. Thank you.”
The solicitor stayed for tea. He seemed pleased to be at journey’s end and to have discharged his last obligation to the man he had served for so long. Kit shared with him the few stories she had to tell of the baron, all the while wondering what this latest development would mean for her marriage.
Her marriage to a knight .