Chapter 5 #3
A thaw meant mud, and mud meant hard, dangerous going on the lanes.
“Then I am off to ask questions at the local coaching inn. They see little traffic, and if Lord Dantry bought a ticket, that will be remembered.” Remembered and marveled over.
Peers did not, in the usual course, jostle along, mile after mile, in the company of goodwives and grandpapas, but there were only so many ways to leave the environs of the Knot.
As it happened, the proprietor of The Jolly Weasel had accurate records of stage fares bought in each direction back to Roman antiquity.
“Your lordship might enjoy a pint in the snug whilst I have a look at me ledger to refresh me memory, so to speak.”
Mr. Pippindonk—not a name easily forgotten—sent a meaningful glance toward the corner of the common closest to the roaring hearth. The benches were padded, and one of them was as yet unoccupied.
Information Pippindonk doubtless harbored in his square, bald head would not be divulged unless I displayed myself for his patrons. I was further to enjoy his libation while the dozen or so denizens present inspected me at their leisure.
I was, in other words, to provide grist for a very humble version of the boast that “King George slept here.” He were brother to a dook and had them peculiar blue spectacles…
I did not, as it happened, care for most winter ales. That left me facing a difficult fate, indeed.
“Might I trouble you for a mulled cider?” I asked, pulling off my gloves.
“Me missus makes the best mulled cider this side of kingdom come, milord. Packs a wallop, it do, but warms the innards. You’ll want some pear tarts to go with it, or one of her baked potatoes.
Ma Pippindonk’s potatoes is famous in these parts.
She does the mash and adds bacon and a helping of cheddar and keeps ’em piping hot in the Dutch oven.
The local ladies swear their menfolk come for Ma’s potatoes as much as for me own pints. ”
He’d rocked up on his toes and back, as if preparing to launch his squat form heavenward on wings of Potato Raptures.
Reconnaissance was a demanding job. I’d engaged in drinking contests, footraces, arm-wrestling matches, and countless games of cards for the glory of old England. I’d gone perilously short of sleep, trekked endless miles on foot by dark of night, and sat without moving for hours.
Sir Clive, Miss Dulcie, Mrs. Stoneham, the climbing boys, the creditors, and the crossing sweepers were all counting on me to locate the missing earl, and I might be the earl’s only prayer of living to happy old age.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I barely bothered with breakfast, and this weather puts an appetite on a man.”
Pippindonk clapped his hands together and closed his eyes on a contented sigh. Then he raised a hand as if signaling for silence on the bidding floor.
“Find room for his lordship on yonder bench, ye slubberdegullions and slackers. He’s about to make the acquaintance of Ma’s Famous Potatoes, and he’ll be having a pint of mulled cider to wash ’em down. Says the weather puts an appetite on a man, and his lordship knows of what he speaks.”
This introduction earned me a few sheepish nods and lifted tankards. I took my place on the appointed cushion, feeling resentful, foolish, and touched.
These were Sir Clive’s people. He had no sons or relatives among them, but he saw that their church steps were cleared, maintained many of their properties, employed their offspring, and probably knew them all by name.
They were likely never too busy to pass the time with him, nor he with them, and the shire prospered for that mutual liking and respect.
Lord Dantry strutted around in Parliament and filled reams of paper with his stirring rhetoric. Sir Clive checked on the chickens.
When I had done proper justice to a potato that was well worth my compliments to the kitchen and sipped my way through a pint of respectable cider that did indeed have quite a kick, Pippindonk made good on his half of the bargain.
On the night Lord Dantry had gone missing, and for the two days following, Pippindonk had sold not one ticket to any young man, nor to any old man, or female of any description who had enough height to resemble the earl in even that one feature.
I thanked him profusely for his assistance and rose from the bench amid a chorus of mind-how-ye-go-sir and have-a-care-with-this-weather-young-milord. Executing a dignified exit took enough of my focus that I neglected to put on my specs before I gained the inn’s front steps.
The cider rivaled Mrs. Gwinnett’s toddy potion for parting a man from his sense of balance. Deceptively pleasant sipping, and the potatoes had been very filling.
My forgetfulness earned me a stout stab in the eyeballs when my gaze met the bright midday sunlight.
This was all to the good, of course, as it allowed the various shovelers, idlers, and other gossips to have a lengthy gawk at me as I lingered on the steps and tried to recall where I’d stashed my spectacles.
Word of the Weasel’s guest of honor had apparently circulated, and the tale of my upright progress along the high street might well be told when I’d long since ceased to draw breath. That I could walk unassisted on snowy cobbles certainly impressed me.
As I toddled along, nobody even bothered to sweep, shovel, scrub, or otherwise engage in a fiction of productive industry. The good souls of Little Middleton beamed at me as if I’d just won the local apple-bobbing contest, despite himself being a lord an’ all.
I crowned my performance by making inquiries at the local livery, where, to my relief, I was not required to buy a horse in exchange for answers.
A groom told me plainly that no horses had been rented out to toffs sporting gold spurs, nor to Sir Clive’s fancy young cousin, if that’s what I’d been wanting to know, and every hack in the stable was present and accounted for.
All the while, the fellow smiled at me as if I’d been wearing a laying hen on my head instead of a fine, high-crowned beaver.
Two pointless inquiries in the space of one frustrating hour. I adjusted the angle of my hat and took stock of my options.
I could pitch in with the shoveling, which would likely earn me insistent invitations to enjoy multiple servings of hot mulled cider, or I could walk back to the Knot through more than a foot of snow.
I had no wish to die in the prime of life, as Sir Clive would have said, a thought to lighten the heart, because it was only partly fueled by spices and spirits.
I started walking. I wanted to see the place where Sir Clive had found Lord Dantry’s hat, and I needed to move if I was to clear my abused head and work off my serving of Ma Pippindonk’s Celestial Spuds.
As I left the livery yard, I noted the friendly footman who’d brought my luncheon tray the previous day leaning on a shovel outside the chandler’s shop.
He was apparently passing the time of day with a young lady who really ought to have been wearing more than a shawl over her generous bosom, given the weather.
Farther along the high street, a fellow in a groom’s cap had similarly paused in his shoveling to exchange pleasantries with a woman outside the smithy. She smiled at him with a brilliance that rivaled the sun bedazzling the new-fallen snow.
The lads weren’t reserving their flirtations for a mere half day a week. As Sir Clive had said, spring must follow on, regardless of the weather.