18 Broken Glass
Cal had another visit from Archie Buckley, who sat outside the hut sharing both Cal’s ale and the latest village gossip. Ben Lovell was there too, on his way home after the outdoor workers’ dinner in the servants’ hall, the three men in perfect amity.
It was Ben who raised the issue of Timmy Skinner. “Any news, Archie? We’re all worried about the lad.”
Archie shook his head sadly. “Not a sign of him. His ma swears he’s not been near the cottage, but she’d not tell us if he had, I s’pose.”
“Where else would he go?” Ben said. “He’s no relations here, apart from his sister, and she’s in service somewhere.”
“Aye, and she’s not seen him, neither,” Archie said.
“If I’d nothing better to do, I’d sit and watch Woodend Cottage.
It’s my belief he’s hiding out in the woods somewhere, and this fine weather he’d be able to keep himself well hid, but he’s bound to be slipping back to his ma’s for food.
Tis a pity I’ve got the shop to run, but if you two can keep your eyes open for any sign of him, mebbe we’ll catch up with him sooner rather than later. ”
“If we were to see him,” Cal said carefully, “what do you want us to do? Try to capture him and bring him to you? Tell you where he is? Or slip him a few guineas for the stage coach to London?”
“Well, now, that’s a question,” Archie said, inhaling sharply. “Help him evade the law? I couldn’t approve of that, not as constable, you understand. If he done wrong, he ought to take the punishment.”
“Stealing a bit of tea’s not such a bad crime, is it?” Ben said. “He’d be fined, maybe.”
“It’s the value of it,” Archie said. “Miss Hester said as how it were the good stuff, ten shillings a pound, and going on for months and months. Could be transportation. No one wants that for the poor little nipper. But Mr Richard, he says if Timmy comes and confesses, and expresses con— contrict—”
“Contrition?” Cal suggested.
“Aye. Says he’s sorry, anyway, and won’t never do it again, he’d be prepared to let it go and not bring a charge. Course, Timmy’ll lose his place and no reference, neither, but it’s better than going out to that terrible heathen place.”
Cal wasn’t convinced about that, but he said no more.
Archie was right about one thing — the weather was fine enough for the boy to sleep out of doors, and if he had some skill at foraging, he could survive very well in the woods, at least until the autumn arrived.
Then he’d need to build a shelter of some sort.
But most likely Timmy’s mother was feeding him, and he only needed to keep out of sight during the day and find a safe place to sleep at night.
And there was one place where a scared boy might look for shelter very close to his mother’s cottage.
Did Timmy know about Briar House? Almost certainly, for he would have explored all the lanes near the cottage and discovered the gate posts.
From there anyone might follow the twin lines of trees marking the carriage drive and thus find the house.
So it was that the next day Cal walked to the near end of Frickham Woods, and through the gate posts. He looked carefully as he went for any sign of new footprints, but the ground was hard and his own back and forth with Cora made it impossible to discern any traces.
At the house, however, he found the kitchen door unlocked. That could be because the mysterious cleaner was in the house, industriously removing all traces of dust and cobwebs in the favoured rooms, but it could also mean that Timmy had got hold of a key.
There was nothing untoward in the downstairs rooms, but upstairs Cal found the first traces of Timmy — clear footprints in the dust. They were hard to spot, because his own exploration of the upper floor had left a distinct trail, but now and then he saw another, slightly smaller, footprint.
The trail led him to one of the bedrooms, now swept clean, at least on the floor.
The ceiling and bed were still festooned with cobwebs, but there was a clean passage to the far side, where a neat pile of blankets under a window told its own story.
However, there was no sign of anyone in the house at that time, so Cal quietly left. He would keep returning, and sooner or later he would catch the boy and then… then he would decide what to do.
***
Cora was aware of what her old nurse had been used to call an Atmosphere in the house.
The daily round went on, the usual activities occupied the ladies, conversations swirled around just as normal, yet there was an edge to it that even she, immersed in her own thoughts as she so often was, could not miss.
Undoubtedly the whole household now knew precisely what had been occurring. They had suspected before, but presumably Richard had confirmed their worst fears. Nothing was said openly, so perhaps he had told them that he had dealt with the matter.
If he thought that, he was mistaken. Cora had no intention of giving up Cal, so each night she retired early to her room, allowed Souter to remove her evening gown and dress her in something plainer, then, wrapped in a cloak, she crept through the house to the orangery and unlocked the door to release her to the woods.
Until one night the key would not work.
She smiled. So Richard wanted to play games, did he?
Changing the lock would not work, either.
The deep sash windows on either side of the door had rather a high sill, but by pulling across a box of tools left by one of the workmen, she was able to scramble up to it.
Then it was a matter of shuffling herself round and dropping down on the other side.
Climbing out of windows was not something a lady in her middle years, no matter how intrepid, could accomplish with dignity, and so she half fell through, landing awkwardly on one hip, accompanied by a shower of glass from her lantern.
She arrived at the hut, therefore, rather discomposed.
“Cora! Whatever happened to you?”
“I fell through the window. Richard changed the lock on the door of the orangery, so I was—”
“Your hand! Wait, let me get a cloth.”
“Oh,” she said, bemused, staring down at the still-gushing blood, now staining her skirts. “My lantern broke.”
For some time, he fussed over her, cleaning and peering into the wound, before carefully bandaging it.
“You must get this properly seen to,” he said. “The light is too poor here. I think I’ve got all the glass out of it, but it needs to be looked at by a professional.”
“It will be fine, Cal.”
“No, no, you must promise me! You can’t be too careful with these things. Promise you’ll call in the physician first thing tomorrow.”
“Very well, you old fuss-budget. Would the village apothecary satisfy you? I could wait all day for Dr Percival to drive out from Brinchester, but Will Smith would be there before breakfast.”
“Aye, he’s a good man, and if it needs sewing up, you’d need him anyway. Get him to give you some laudanum to help you sleep.”
“I have no need of laudanum to help me sleep,” she murmured, eyes demurely downcast.
He laughed then. “Hmm, you’re a wicked woman, Cora Merrington. But no more climbing through windows, do you hear? Next time it might be worse than a cut on your hand.”
The apothecary-surgeon did indeed arrive before breakfast and had Cora’s injury cleaned, examined under a magnifying glass, stitched up and rebound before she was even dressed.
It meant that she was late for breakfast, but that was, she felt, an advantage, for the whole family was assembled.
Mr Godley, Mr Pyott and several servants were there, too, but that could not be helped.
“Mama!” Charlotte cried, seeing the bandage. “Your hand! What have you done to it?”
“We heard that Mr Smith was here,” Augusta said.
“We assumed you had the headache,” Maria said.
“Have you hurt yourself, Mama?” Sophia said.
“I cut it on broken glass,” she said calmly. “Is there any tea left in that pot?”
“Broken glass?” Richard said sharply, as the girls twittered anxiously. “How did that happen?”
“My lantern got broken. Maria, dear, would you pass me the toast, if you please?”
“Lantern?” he said, his face darkening.
“Mama, however did you come to break a lantern?” Charlotte said.
“It is quite your brother’s fault,” Cora said, sipping her tea. “Ew, this is stewed. Froggett, would you bring me a fresh pot?”
“It is on the way, madam.”
“We will talk about this later,” Richard said, but Charlotte’s high voice drowned him out.
“How is it Richard’s fault? Have you quarrelled again?”
“No, indeed,” Cora said. “It would be dreadfully unmannerly for a mother and son to quarrel, would you not agree? Richard merely changed the lock on the outer door of the orangery, so I was obliged to climb through the window and made rather a poor fist of it, I regret to say. My lantern got broken and I have the most enormous bruise on one hip. I made good my escape, however, and came back in by way of the garden door, which was not locked, so that was all right. I hope he does not take to nailing shut all the ground floor windows, for then I should be obliged to tie sheets together to descend from an upper window and I cannot view the prospect with any enthusiasm.”
She paused to butter her toast, taking the most enormous pleasure in the horrified expressions around the table. How Cal would laugh when she told him of it!
“I do think,” she went on thoughtfully, “that at my age I should be free to come and go as I please.”
Richard made a strangled sound in his throat, then set down his coffee cup with a clatter and stormed from the room.
“Mama!” Charlotte said in outraged tones.
“Ah, my tea,” Cora said, as a footman rushed in with a teapot, and Froggett placed it carefully on the table, together with a clean cup and saucer. “Well done, Froggett! You are a treasure.”
“We do our humble best, madam,” he murmured, with an avuncular smile.
***