Chapter 5 #3
He touched her arm and she flinched. He appeared not to notice and just pushed her gently ahead of him out of the door. “Let’s see what Verity thinks of this transformation.”
When they entered the parlor Verity looked up and stared. “My goodness! If I didn’t know, I’d never guess.”
“Let’s hope that is true for everyone.” Cyn looked over Verity in turn.
She was the picture of a rather slatternly maid.
She still wore the plain, sleeved chemise, a skirt of cheap striped cloth, and a sleeveless laced bodice in a practical and ugly mud color.
She’d added an apron, and a neckerchief, knotted in front.
A cap covered almost all her hair. Cap, neckerchief, and apron looked suspiciously kin to the ones he wore.
Unpleasant suspicions stirred in his head.
“I fear,” he said, probing gently, “that people will think me a harsh mistress to dress my maid in the castoff clothes from the local foundling home.”
Verity’s revealing face told him he was close to the truth. But what truth?
“It’s the best we can do,” said Charles sharply. “Do you think her looks are changed enough?”
Verity’s hair had been darkened by grease rather than dye, and it straggled out of the front of her cap. The change was remarkable.
“It will do, I think,” he said. “If we come face-to-face with someone who knows Verity well, it won’t work, but the main danger surely is that bills have been posted, and the authorities alerted.
They’ll be looking for a young blond lady with a child.
I’m darker, and must look considerably older as a woman than my true twenty-four. What? Thirty-odd?”
Verity nodded and smiled. “We’ll do it, won’t we?”
He smiled back at her as if she were one of his raw recruits needing encouragement before the first battle. “Assuredly we will.”
Spontaneously she held out her hands. When he took them she kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you. I’m so glad we found you.”
“Captured him,” corrected Charles sharply.
Cyn turned to his glowering damsel. He grasped her by the shoulders, and before she could react, kissed her as Verity had kissed him. She jerked back and scrubbed at her lips.
“My dear sir,” said Cyn, tremulously, which was easy since he was fighting laughter, “a thousand apologies. I became carried away by my part!”
“Get carried away like that again,” snapped his damsel, “and I’ll gut you.” She picked up a portmanteau and stalked off toward the coach.
By noon, Cyn had decided this adventure was a dead bore. Where was the challenge? Where were the dangers? Where were the dragons for him to fight?
All he was experiencing was the familiar swaying motion of the coach, the chill of a sharp November day, and the discomfort of his disguise.
His legs felt smothered in skirts, the wool stuffing itched, and the coarse strings of the cap were fretting his skin.
He’d thought a stiff stock around his neck was bad enough, but this was undoubtedly worse.
He’d removed the hat as soon as they were in the coach, but felt he had to keep the cap on in case a passing traveler looked inside the carriage. They’d already decided that to pull the curtains would make them look suspicious. Now he untied the strings of the cap and let them hang.
“Why the deuce,” he asked, “would anyone make a cap out of such coarse calico?” Despite his irritation he spoke softly for the baby slept.
“For durability,” said Charles unsympathetically. “After a score or so washings it will soften up.”
“It would be better, surely, to buy the cloth already softened.”
“But more expensive.”
Curiosity stirred in Cyn again. “Where did these caps come from?”
“We just had them lying around,” she said evasively, then smiled without warmth. “I’m sorry we had nothing more suitable for your delicate skin, milord.”
“Why not?”
She flashed a sharp look at him. “Why should we have expensive folderols?”
Cyn glanced at Verity, who looked anxious. “Because you and your sister are gently bred. Your clothes, sir, though somewhat old-fashioned, have come from a modish tailor. So, if there are female garments, I would expect them to be of high quality.”
Charles’ color betrayed agitation, but she answered calmly. “Verity fled in disguise, and I certainly don’t wear caps.”
Cyn persisted. “Then where did these come from?”
Her jaw tightened. “Nana and I were making them for the Magdalene in Shaftesbury.”
It was a plausible explanation, though Cyn doubted it. He relaxed back and fanned himself with his bonnet. “How charitable,” he murmured. “Especially on your part, sir.”
She bit her lip.
It was Verity who stepped into the breach. “He’s claiming more credit than he’s due. I’m sure all he did was to cut out the cloth.”
The coach swung into an inn yard, and the conversation was abandoned with Cyn little the wiser.
The change was slow since Hoskins had no one to blow for a new team or help the ostlers. Though they were still on Cyn’s prearranged route, he had decided not to use the teams of Rothgar’s horses which awaited, and he’d told Hoskins to avoid the inns where he would be known.
As far as Cyn knew, Rothgar was in London, not at the Abbey, but once he learned of his brother’s disappearance, Cyn suspected he would institute a search. No need to leave a blazing trail. He had no desire to be ‘rescued’ by the marquess a second time.
Now, however, they had to hire post horses at each stage, with postilions to care for them. Hoskins grumbled that the teams were mere cart horses.
In short, nobody was happy with the state of affairs.
Cyn casually scrutinized the inn yard for posters, or overattentive observers. Nothing. Perhaps there was no hunt at all. Chances seemed excellent of them reaching Maidenhead in two days without incident.
How dull.
Then he saw Verity’s pallid face. At every stop, and whenever a horseman passed them on the road, she tensed with fear. The sooner she reached her Nathaniel, the better.
As they pulled out, the baby woke and began to cry.
Within moments the complaint grew from a whimper to a howl—an amazingly piercing sound for one so small.
Verity’s face turned rosy as she put him to her breast under a shawl.
Cyn politely looked away, though there was nothing to see.
He found the mental image of a baby at the breast fascinating, however, and the effect was heightened by the soft slurping noises the baby made.
He wondered what it would be like to watch the mother of his child feed the babe, what it would be like to suck on nipples which produced milk. He slid a look at Charles.
He blinked, amazed at himself. Children? Marriage? Such things had no part in his life. Married life and soldiering didn’t mesh. As the veterans said, ‘When a soldier puts his cap on, he should know his family’s covered.’
Anyway, if he had any thoughts of marriage, he’d be mad to consider his damsel-in-distress. She showed few womanly attributes. But Lord, it would be fine to have a wife with her kind of courage . . .
The slurping stopped and the baby again set up a screech. Verity hushed and gabbled and patted the child on the back. He kicked and screamed, red-faced and furious. Verity was almost as red. Cyn stared out the window, as if unaware of the racket, but wishing he could put his hands over his ears.
The screams lowered slightly in volume, and he glanced back. Charles had the baby now and was holding William with more confidence than anyone would expect of a young man. The baby had quieted to an occasional whine which might even be a prelude to sleep. They all sighed with relief.
William had obviously just needed a moment to catch his breath. He suddenly thrust his legs out and screamed even louder, as if in terrible pain. Cyn couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but began to worry that the babe would expire in front of him. Children died from minor problems all the time.
Verity, however, looked embarrassed rather than terrified.
The noise went on and on. Charles jiggled the babe and looked every bit as alarmed as Cyn. Verity took the babe back and tried to put him to the breast again, but little William rejected it furiously. She sat him up, lay him down, put him to her shoulder.
Cyn decided that being confined in a coach with a screaming baby was a very effective form of torture. He’d give away national secrets to stop the racket.
Verity looked close to tears. “Oh, I’m sorry. It must be gas, but I can’t seem to do anything . . .”
Though he knew nothing about babies, Cyn knew a lot about horses, dogs, and raw recruits, and he thought that at the moment Verity was doing more harm than good. “Oh, give him to me,” he said, rather more sharply than he intended.
She hesitated, but he took the howling babe anyway.
He was surprised by the squirming strength of the tiny mite, and because he’d taken hold of more blanket than babe, he almost dropped him.
Quite by accident, William ended up face-down on Cyn’s knee with a thump.
The child gave a burp, spit up on Cyn’s skirt, and was quiet.
All three of them looked at the baby, expecting the ear-splitting noise to start again. Quiet reigned and William didn’t even seem to object to his position. Cyn turned him cautiously. The child was a perfect little cherub, and even seemed to smile with gratitude as he drifted off to sleep.
Verity leaned forward to dab at Cyn’s skirt with a rag, apologizing again. “I was fretting him,” she said. “I’m sure that’s why he had the gripe. He’s normally such a good baby.” She sat up again. “I’m so scared . . .”
Charles covered her hand. “Don’t be, love. See, here we are close to Salisbury already, and no sign of pursuit. We have wound ourselves up into a stew over nothing.”
“Oh, I do hope so.”
“We’ll stop soon for a luncheon.” Charles looked a challenge at Cyn, but when he made no objection she asked more moderately, “Do you think we’ll make Basingstoke tonight, my lord?”
“Not without a great push,” Cyn said. “The road is none too good and I see no reason to hurry.”
The sisters exchanged glances. “Where then?”
“The road between Andover and Basingstoke is very bleak, not to be traveled after dark. There’s a White Hart at Worting and another at Whitchurch. Both good places. I suggest we see how far we can reasonably go.”
“How is it you know this road so well?” Charles asked suspiciously.
“I traveled it not many days ago. There’s not a great deal for a lonely traveler to do but follow the map.” He pulled one out of a pocket by his seat and handed it to her.
She studied it, finding Salisbury. “Did you travel from Rothgar Abbey?”
“Yes.”
“Where exactly is it?”
“Not far from Farnham.”
“So at Basingstoke we’ll be off your route?”
“Yes.”
“Will we reach Maidenhead tomorrow?” Verity asked.
“That depends on the roads. I suggest we go north at Basingstoke to join the Bath road at Reading, then we’ll be on a toll road. It should be better than this.”
They seemed disinclined to argue, which surprised him. Was Charles mellowing at last?
Peace after Bedlam would mellow anyone.
He looked down at the baby, surprised by how pleasant it felt to hold the sleeping mite.
He’d seen plenty of Hilda’s daughter but never, as a mere male, been entrusted with her.
The soft, pliant weight, the steady rise and fall of breathing, the dreaming sucking motions of the full lips all charmed him.
And this wasn’t a perfect child. He had a rash on his cheek, perhaps from his tear-dampened blanket. Verity had changed him once today, but a sour smell rose from him. Cyn didn’t know who the father was, but he suspected the child would never make his fortune with his face.
All the same, sweetly, trustingly asleep, the baby caught his heart and made him think again of children of his own . . .
“Halt!”
The summons caught them all unawares. Charles put a hand toward the pistol-holster. Verity reached for her child.
Cyn held on to the babe. “Look innocent, damn you.” This clearly was no attempt at robbery, and could only be a military patrol. The door was sharply opened. Cyn turned toward it with a look of astonishment. “Please!” he said in a whisper. “The babe is sleeping.”
The young officer looked abashed, and then his eyes sharpened. Cyn had no doubt he was on the lookout for a mother and child.
An added complication was that Cyn knew Lieutenant Toby Berrisford very well indeed.