Chapter Sixteen #2
“Yes, well, I can’t pretend it hasn’t been amusing, my lord,” Mr Cleeve replied, his moustache twitching. He then paused, expression calculating. “If not terribly distressing. I have a name to uphold.”
“I’ll send a bottle over from my cellar to help you nurse your hurt feelings,” Crabb sighed as he rose to his feet. He glanced toward Gabe, who followed suit—head brushing the low ceiling.
“Much appreciated, my lord.” Mr Cleeve was all smiles now, as he walked them to the door.
“Even more so if it arrives home before the wife does. No harm done, at any rate—I’m only glad that the shine has been taken off Mr Postlethwaite’s sterling reputation.
I’m sure I’m not the only victim of his interfering. ”
The three men trooped from the small cottage into the crisp morning air, where their horses were tethered. As the door closed behind them, Lord Crabb lifted a gloved hand.
“Marrowbone, you have one second to disappear from my sight—and don’t even think of hiding in The Ring. That’s precisely where the Comte and I are headed.”
The constable blinked, licking his lips nervously, before turning tail and lumbering through the snow to his mount—a rotund pony, as indolent as its master.
The viscount waited until Marrowbone had clambered awkwardly into the saddle before turning to Gabe. “I don’t know about you, de Roche, but I’m in need of a pint.”
“I’ve been in need of one since five this morning,” Gabe returned, a wry grin tugging at his mouth.
They made their way slowly through the snow towards the village, which lay almost deserted, the shops closed in honour of the new year.
The proprietors clearly put as much stock in superstition as the constable, Gabe thought with a smile.
As they tethered their horses, he wondered whether The Ring would be open at all—but when they stepped inside, they found the place doing a roaring trade.
“Happy New Year, my lords!” Angus called cheerfully from behind the counter. “Two pints?”
Lord Crabb inclined his head, and the landlord set about drawing their ale. The pair took their places on the high stools by the bar while Gabe cast an idle glance over the throng of patrons.
His stomach gave a jolt as he spied the familiar figure of Benoit Hardy seated in the far corner, surreptitiously sketching in a notebook, his eyes lifting every so often in Gabe’s direction.
“What do you make of that fellow?” Gabe asked, nodding discreetly towards the corner where Mr Hardy was ensconced.
Lord Crabb swivelled on his stool for a look. “The painter?” he said, turning back to Gabe. “I’ve hardly given him a thought. Harmless sort.”
Gabe nodded quietly in reply, though his mind was whirring.
Was it so far-fetched to think that Mr Postlethwaite might have stumbled upon some French intrigue during the course—or dereliction—of his duties as postmaster?
Even with Bonaparte shipped off to that rock in the Atlantic, half the country still fancied his agents hiding behind every hedge.
Was it so impossible to think one might land in Plumpton?
He was about to voice his suspicions when Angus set two frothy pints of ale down on the counter before them. Gabe moved to take his coin-purse from his coat pocket, but the barman waved him away.
“On the house,” Angus said, his bushy beard twitching in a manner that suggested he was smiling beneath it. “I reckon you’re in need of cheering up, Comte—after last night.”
Gabe stilled, anxiety causing his heart to thump erratically in his chest. The worries that had plagued him all morning surged back, swelling until they almost drowned out his ability to speak.
“Why’s that?” he eventually managed.
“Er—well.” Angus shifted nervously. “Miss Mifford came down to take a gander at the betting book. Quite upset she was, after reading it.”
Time stood completely still. Gabe's hand, halfway to his glass, froze in mid-air.
The noise of the pub—the chatter, the clink of glasses, the occasional eruption of flatulence—all faded to a dull roar in his ears.
He closed his eyes, praying that when he opened them he would find it was all a bad dream.
“Everything alright, de Roche?” Lord Crabb’s voice interrupted his spiral into despair.
“I’m afraid I may have gravely insulted Miss Mifford,” Gabe answered as he opened his eyes. The same scene remained; Angus watching him with sympathy, the viscount watching him with concern.
“I must go to her,” he said as he pushed back from the bar abruptly, his stool scraping on the flagstones.
He had to see her, to explain himself, to try soothe away the hurt he had caused.
An image of her face, hurt and confused, flashed in his mind’s eye and he felt a stab of pain in his heart for causing her distress.
“Hold your horses, old friend,” Lord Crabb’s hand moved to his shoulder, halting his escape. “Don’t do anything rash. If you’ve insulted her, it was because you acted without thinking. If you want to win her back, you’ll have to put thought and effort into securing her forgiveness.”
Gabe nodded mutely, bile rising in his throat.
“Er, what was it you did?” Lord Crabb queried, casting a glance toward Angus who suddenly became very interested in a cobweb on the ceiling.
Gabe heaved a sigh, sat back down and in a halting voice began to explain to his friend how he had sought to best fate, but she’d had the last laugh after all.