Chapter 20
Kit stretched and yawned, the soreness in her body reminding her of the previous night. She had known Martin was a wonderful lover, known he could be tender and gentle, but this time he had been so much more. He had murmured French words of love as he made love to her again during the night, like a man long without food finding himself at a banquet. She had never felt more desirable.
As she lay next to him, she thought about how intimately they shared their bodies and how eloquently he spoke of his love while sharing nothing of his work. Perhaps that would soon change.
“Martin, how much longer will we be here?”
“Ah, Kitten.” He gave her a squeeze. “I see you grow tired of this village life. I do not blame you. So do I. It won’t be much longer that you’ll have to endure this slow pace.”
“It is not the pace I mind. I rather enjoy the calm of village life. But it’s not our life, is it? I trust we have a future that is not here in the Midlands.”
“We certainly do. And I am anxious for it to begin, to sweep you away on a wedding trip we’ve yet to take. Trust me, it won’t be long now. But stay close to the inn and the village.”
Always there was that caution. He worried about something that was coming, a dark cloud on the horizon. The uprising, she supposed. Again, for the hundredth time, she wondered how involved he was, and whether the disgruntled workers would truly march on London. At times it all seemed like a dream. The Midlands were so beautiful the idea of any kind of revolution beginning here seemed impossible.
On the eighth of June they attended services at the ancient St. Matthew’s church. In a bizarre turn of the weather it had snowed the day before and, though much had melted, white patches remained in shadows under the trees. Stepping out of the church at the end of the service with Martin at her side, Kit gathered her cloak more tightly around her and stopped to talk to Lydia Moore, the cobbler’s wife, wondering aloud how the weather would affect the local wheat crop. Only yesterday the tender green stalks had been blowing in the breeze.
Martin excused himself, saying he and John needed to speak to the curate. Kit half listened to Mrs. Moore speak of how well her young son Johnnie was doing, half watched Martin and John walk to where Mr. Wolstenholme stood bidding his parishioners good-day. The three men stepped aside and huddled together to talk. Kit wondered if the curate was involved in the planned insurrection. His views seemed more those of a revolutionary than a man of the cloth, but if he was involved it was surely because he cared about the people and wanted justice for them. What a strange place Pentridge was.
Later that day, after they’d shared a meal, Martin excused himself again to leave her alone in their rooms. Kit could sense something was afoot and was curious to know what it was. She allowed some time to pass then started downstairs. Nanny Weightman was welcoming a score of men through the front door, urging them quickly into the back room. A few allowed their gazes to drift to where Kit stood on the stairs, but none paused as they strode to their destination. From the looks of them, they were from the ironworks, large muscular laborers with rugged features dressed simply in brown woolens as she’d observed the day she and Martin rode to the factory.
As Kit descended to the base of the stairs, the one they called the Nottingham Captain walked through the door. Her drawing of him was nearly done, and she could see it was a good likeness. It depicted the man’s thin face, thick curly hair, intense dark eyes and the scraggly dark beard and mustache that cried for a trim. His shoulders were slight but he stood erect.
Only when he joined the others assembling in the back room did Kit approach the proprietress. “Mrs. Weightman, may I ask, do you know that man who just passed by?”
“Why, yes, that’d be Mr. Brandreth, m’dear. He once destroyed those infernal textile machines, but he’s taken on a greater role now for the good of the cause. He’s arrived in Pentridge for some final planning with the men of the village, including me own sons. Did ye know me boys are to have positions in the new provisionary government? And me brother Thomas has been participating in the meetings in Nottingham. He believes, as I do, ’tis time the workers have their say.”
Kit could hardly believe the pride shining in the woman’s eyes as she spoke of her sons and family rebelling against the Crown. “I see,” she said, still shocked by the possibility the townsfolk could endorse the man known as the Nottingham Captain and think a revolution likely to succeed, even encouraging their sons to join. Kit would have considered persuading her to see reason, but the conviction in Mrs. Weightman’s voice did not invite debate.
“Why, yer own husband Mr. Donet be with them!”
“Yes…yes, of course.” Kit shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that, but she was. She decided to pretend Martin participated with her knowledge, certain it was the only reason the woman was sharing information so freely.
Nanny Weightman turned to greet more men entering the inn, and Kit wandered toward the back listening for voices. She paused near the doorway, hearing the large room crowded with men, and slipped along the back wall to sit on a keg behind a stack of crates. Through an opening she saw Jeremiah Brandreth at the front of the crowd.
Gesturing to the man on his right Brandreth announced, “The rising is nearly here. Meet my good friend from South Wingfield, Isaac Ludlam. He lost his farm to bad times and has been using his stonecutting skills to develop weapons. Thanks be to God he escaped the scrape with General Byng!”
Ludlam rose from his chair. Tall and powerfully built, the man had hair the same tan color of the stones of the Pentridge inns. “I’ve some pikes stored at my quarry on the way to South Wingfield not two miles away. They’ll arm some of us at least. My friend William Turner here”—he gestured to a man next to him—“has more.”
The thin and wiry Turner joined his friend at the front of the crowd. “I can get us weapons, but they be of little use if’n we don’t first get rid of the magistrate, Colonel Hatton. He’s the one who had those boys arrested that even now rot in gaol, waiting to be hung for the hayfield burning. I’ve a plan to lure Hatton out of his house by setting fire to some straw on his doorstep, and then we can shoot him as he comes to investigate. ’Twill be easy.”
The men seemed to consider Turner’s idea, some shaking their heads, some nodding. Kit was horrified. The man openly urged murder! She remembered what the curate had told her of the four young men whose bodies he expected would soon be buried in the church graveyard, and she regretted that their lives might be forfeit, but revenge such as this was appalling. She was relieved when, after some discussion, most of the men dismissed the idea of killing the magistrate.
“I be John Onion”—a man rose from the barrel upon which he rested—“and I speak fer the Butterley Ironworkers here. Six of our men were just sacked because they are members of the Hampden Club led by our friend Thomas. They argued for reform of Parliament and the vote for all men, but the factory manager claimed they were rebels and troublemakers and threw them out. I say they are men we should follow!”
Listening, Kit wondered if that was the reason Martin had taken her riding near the ironworks. Somehow she felt certain their ride and the involvement of the men from the factory were two threads in the same twist. Why else would Martin want to see the ironworks? Did he plan to return with these men?
“Aye, you’re right, John,” called Brandreth. “You mention my friend Thomas Bacon. I met with him in Nottingham just a day ago. He thinks Pentridge should be our base of operation for the rising and I agree. Great events will shortly come to pass, and the countryside is only waiting for the men of Pentridge to join.”
“We’re with ye!” a man shouted from the back of the room. Raised voices began a chorus of agreement.
Brandreth calmed the men with raised arms. “It makes sense to me we begin here. Pentridge is near the ironworks, where John Onion has assured me hundreds will rise with us.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” said Onion. “Some I know were none too happy about the sacking. Those were men with families to feed. ’Tis only right that the iron bars lying about the factory should be given to us as weapons when we come a-calling.” The big man gave Brandreth a knowing smile, as if they shared some secret. Kit decided the ironworks must be the key to their success.
The Nottingham Captain drew a large map from the floor behind him and set it on a crate in the middle of the room, and the crowd drew close, straining to see. It looked to Kit like there were more than thirty of them gathered around.
“Oliver tells me the whole country is ready to rise. This is the route we’ll take to join the others in Nottingham. We’ll travel the few miles south from Pentridge to Ripley and then east the fourteen miles to Nottingham. And from there to London! Along the way we shall gather more men and weapons.” Brandreth picked up a stack of circulars and began to pass them around. “I’ve written some verses to inspire ye,” he said, then he began to recite:
Every man his skill must try,
He must turn out and not deny;
No bloody soldier must he dread,
He must turn out and fight for bread.
The time is come, you plainly see,
The government opposed must be!
The room was quiet for a few seconds and then erupted with shouts of, “The time has come! The time has come!”
Kit watched in horror. Could they not see what idiocy this was? Soldiers could kill them all! She wanted to cry out their folly but knew they’d never listen to a woman, and certainly not a Frenchman’s wife.
Brandreth raised his hand to silence the men and began once more to speak. “Tomorrow night we’ll gather at Hunt’s barn. From there we’ll march together to Nottingham, where my own men await. Clouds of men from the north will come alongside, and we’ll sweep all before us!”
“What will happen at Nottingham, Captain?” shouted a man from the back of the room, not far from where Kit was hidden.
“There’ll be ale and beef for every man, and a hundred guineas apiece. Over sixteen thousand men will rise there to march with us,” Brandreth promised with obvious confidence. “Oliver has assured me that, by the time we reach Nottingham, London will have fallen into the hands of the new government he is organizing. I’m dispatching young George Weightman here,” he added, gazing at the young man of whom Kit had become so fond, “to check on the men at Nottingham and return with a report for us tomorrow. ”
Kit struggled to absorb the gravity of what she heard even as the men shouted, “Hear, hear!” No longer could she deny the purpose the men were pursuing, or their determination, even if it be madness. Though the stuff of dreams, she knew the promise of a hundred guineas would lure many of the villagers to join the insanity. It was an outrageous sum that none would ever see.
She raised her head to peer over a crate, watching as the men gathered around George Weightman, wishing him well on his journey to Nottingham, some even handing him coin for his travel. And that was when Kit saw him. Martin. Sitting on a barrel in a corner of the room, still as a stone, his blue eyes full of fury he stared straight at her.
Without hesitation, heart racing, Kit slid out of her hiding place, ducked out of the room, and ran for the stairs.
She slammed the door to their rooms and pressed her back against it, her heart pounding in her chest. What could she tell him? But before she could gather her thoughts, the door struck her back as it was forced open. She turned and stepped farther into the room.
A furious Martin stalked toward her. She gasped and ran into the bedchamber. The sound of his booted footsteps followed.
“Just what did you think you were doing, Kit?” His expression thunderous, he stood legs spread and hands fisted on hips. Never had she seen him so angry. Backing up, she watched him while desperately trying to think of an explanation he might accept.
Her retreat was stopped by the bed. “I…I just went downstairs when I saw the men pouring into the inn and I was curious to know what they were doing here.” Reminded that her husband had been one of the men, she found herself asking, “And why would you be calmly listening as men urged murder?”
He glanced down for a moment as if reluctant to answer then returned his gaze to her. The fire in those dark blue eyes was only just banked. “You must trust me, Kit. I know what I’m about.”
“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?” she almost shrieked. His continued refusals drove her mad. She knew of his involvement, of his assumed name, but had no reason for it or what he’d dragged them into. Would he follow that madman Brandreth? She could not believe it of him, not unless there was some other part of him she truly did not know.
“I do not want you involved, Kitten,” he said in a softer tone. “I brought you here for your safety, not to involve you in this mess in the Midlands. The less you know the better. You must promise me to stay in the inn and our rooms for the next few days. Please, promise me.”
“Why do you try and restrict me so? Can you not trust my judgment?”
She saw pain in his eyes as the anger faded. “Recall, Kit, that I was married before.”
“I never knew how your wife died…”
“I lost my first wife in France, years ago on a night when I failed to protect her. I have even wondered many times if she was killed in place of me. I have never forgiven myself, and I don’t want to repeat that mistake.” He closed the distance between them, taking her into his arms. “You are so precious to me.”
“Do you still miss her?” Love her?
“I can’t say I don’t think of her. I do. That I was the cause of her death haunts me—but it is only you I am concerned about now. Only you I love, Kit.” Stepping back and raking a hand through his dark hair, one hand on his hip, he added, “Only you I must protect .”
His words caused her anger to fade. She was precious to him. He was worried about her. He’d said it again: he loved her. How could she not love such a man in return ?
He drew her to him, and his lips captured hers in a gentle kiss. But when he raised his head, she came back to a nagging question that still plagued her. She had to know. “Martin, those men are planning a rebellion. Are you a part of it?”
Still holding her he said, “I have a role to play in this, Kit, but it is not what you may suspect. Soon I will explain, but there is no time now. I must return to see what John has learned. Tonight will be critical.”
“I don’t want to stay here alone, Martin.”
“You must,” he replied. “I need you to be strong now, and I need to be sure you are safe while I deal with what is about to happen. Trust me for a little while longer.”
He left without saying more. Kit was torn, thinking of how much she loved him but also tired of being told what to do and offered no information. Did he truly feel justified in leaving her to wonder about his part in this fomenting rebellion? Did he truly think she would not worry about him as he worried about her? No, she would not sit and wait as he urged. If he did not tell her the truth tonight, if he gave her some excuse or forgot to bring it up, she would plan to be at Hunt’s barn in South Wingfield where the men were to meet. If he was there, perhaps she could talk him out of madness.
Rutledge stood in front of the White Horse Inn, content with the way his plans were coming together. The house he had leased from the Duke of Devonshire’s agent lay in a dell, hidden and isolated, most suitable for his purposes, and he’d been having Katherine watched. All was ready.
Though his finding Katherine had come at an inopportune time, it could not have been helped. He was delighted to have found her at all. And then, perhaps the business that brought him to Derbyshire might take care of his other problem. Yes, the timing was perhaps perfect after all. Wasn’t the Frenchman Katherine married one of the insurrectionists plotting that doomed rebellion? The hussars might take care of him. In that case, he would not have to kill the man himself to render Katherine a widow, soiling his hands where it wasn’t truly necessary. He might have a word with the hussar captain, though, to assure they did not miss that particular traitor. Yes, that could be easily arranged.
He had brought an unmarked carriage to the inn, equipped with curtains covering the windows. Taking one of his guards with him and leaving the other with the carriage, he ordered the coachman to wait and entered the inn to find the proprietress just inside the door. He knew of Nanny Weightman from Oliver, for she was active in the workers’ cause, even urging her own sons to become involved in the planned insurrection. The woman was a fool but she might be helpful.
“Good day ta ye, sir. May I be of service?”
“Why, yes.” He forced a smile. “I’m here to escort Mrs. Donet to her husband, who, I understand, is attending a meeting. I believe you are aware of the…meeting at Hunt’s barn?”
“I am, good sir. ’Tis an important day here in Pentridge. Did ye want me to tell Mrs. Donet she has a caller?”
“No. Mrs. Donet and I are previously acquainted. I am expected.”
“Well, then, ye’ll find her upstairs. First door on yer left.”
“Thank you.” Rutledge tipped his head to the innkeeper then signaled his guard with a raised brow to keep the woman occupied.
As he ascended the steps, Rutledge once again gave thanks for the fortuitousness of these events. As it was June ninth, Nanny Weightman’s sons and most of the men of Pentridge were already at Hunt’s barn. There would be few, if any, to see him leave.