Chapter Twenty-One
The adventuring woman should not just expect the unexpected, but be the unexpected.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
Arriving at the train station, Devon leaped from the curricle almost before the horses had come to a halt. He assisted Beth in making a more careful descent with the birdcage, then together they ran up the ramp to the platform. A clock above the ticket booth assured him they still had five minutes before the train arrived, but Devon knew he’d not feel safe until they were on board and heading for London.
Only when Beth stumbled behind him did he realize he’d kept hold of her hand and was practically dragging her along with him. “Sorry,” he said, letting her go—but immediately set a hand against her back as he guided her toward the ticket booth.
“I can walk under my own power, you know,” she said with wry humor.
“You’re keeping me steady,” he answered, flashing a grin to hide the fact that he meant it seriously, and far more soulfully than a licentious rake ought. Somehow over the past few days, Beth Pickering had become the center of his personal gravity. Whenever he left her side for long, it felt like his heart was spinning out into darkness. He had to appreciate the irony: after all, he was only in this situation now because he’d been so aghast at his head of department’s matchmaking endeavors, and so determined to remain single.
Then again, perhaps Beth’s wry comment was her nice, polite way of asserting her personal boundary. And Devon, respecting her, certainly did not want to overstep. So he withdrew his hand—
And she caught it, clutching it warmly with her own. “I’m glad I’ve been a good influence on you,” she said—and the only reason he didn’t stop right then and kiss her in demonstration of just how bad she inspired him to be was because they had a priceless bird to save, a nefarious cabal of ornithologists to escape, and tickets to buy before all the first-class seats were taken.
The ticket clerk watched their approach excitedly, and by the time they arrived he seemed almost breathless. “It’s you!” he exclaimed, his pert little goatee ruffling like a duck’s tail.
“It is?” Devon said cautiously.
“The famous ornithologist lovebirds!”
Beth was so astonished that he’d used the correct word, she did a double take. Then she quickly laughed. “Oh good heavens, no. We only look like them. We’re literature teachers.”
“You’re holding a birdcage,” the clerk pointed out.
“It’s a raven. For a class on Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Two first-class tickets for London, please,” Devon ordered, releasing Beth’s hand as he reached for the wallet in his coat’s inner pocket.
“Of course,” the clerk said. He slipped a card across the desk—not a ticket, but a color postcard with the Little John hawk depicted on it. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for an an autograph…?”
“Certainly,” Beth replied with a smile.
“But we’re just literature teachers,” Devon interjected. “Not famous at all.” He reached beneath the glass screen, seized the tickets, then strode away without another word, leaving Beth to thank the gobsmacked clerk before hurriedly following. As she caught up with him, her hand brushed against his, like a shy question. He reached out to take it, and at once her fingers tightened around his. It was as if they tightened around his heart too.
“You’ve become quite the liar,” he teased, smiling at her.
“Your corruption of me is complete,” she said with a valiant attempt at banter.
“Not quite yet,” he answered, his banter so on point it might even be described as penetrating. Beth blinked, and flushed, and altogether made Devon adore her a hundred times over.
“Excuse me,” the ticket clerk said behind them, dragging a luggage trolley. They leaped apart, for fear of being interrogated about their relationship status and ending up in a newspaper once again, but the clerk did not even notice; he was looking about confusedly. “Where’s your luggage?”
“We have none,” Devon told him.
It was as if he’d announced that suitcases and steamer trunks had been canceled and that there would be no refunds, not even a handbag. The clerk reared back with shock. “Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“I see.” Clearly they were making wholesale edits to a script he had in his mind. He gave himself a little shake. “This is a flag stop; we have to wave down the train so it knows to stop here and pick up passengers. I’ll tell Martin up the signal tower to bring out the white flag and— hey! Stop! ”
At first Devon assumed the young man was merely being emphatic in his explanation of what a white flag signified. But then he glanced up at the signal tower.
“Hey! Stop!” he shouted.
“No, thank you,” called down a Miss Fotheringham from the high platform where she stood beside the signalman (or at least the gagged and bound form of the signalman), waving a green flag aloft.
“But we need the train to stop!” the clerk yelled up to her. “Wave the white flag! The white!”
Miss Fotheringham cupped a hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you!”
TOOT!
Devon and Beth turned to see a train approaching.
And drive past them.
And continue on toward the horizon.
Seconds later, they found themselves looking at empty tracks and a high trail of smoke speckled with disturbed birds. Miss Fotheringham threw down the green flag, cackling.
“I told you we were right to follow Miss Pickering, Elvira!” she called out.
“There’s a first time for everything, Ethel!” came a reedy shout from behind the seating shelter farther down the platform. Devon looked around to see a second Miss Fotheringham emerge, pulling a knife from her puffed sleeve.
“Hand over that bird,” she demanded, moving toward them.
“This?” Beth held up the cage. “It’s empty.”
Whether Miss Fotheringham believed her did not matter, for just then another shout rang out.
“Stop right there!”
Looking around, they saw Gladstone’s footman running up the station’s ramp, red-faced with fury.
“For goodness’ sake,” Beth said. “All this excitement cannot be good for the caladrius.”
“Caladrius?!” The ticket clerk squeaked, excitement radiating from his every pore. “You have the actual caladrius in that cage?!”
Alas, they could not answer him, on account of being halfway across the platform, making at speed for a secondary exit.
“Stop!” Gladstone’s footman insisted, gasping as he reached the top of the ramp.
“Stop!” Elvira Fotheringham demanded, brandishing her knife.
“Terribly sorry!” Beth called out. “Please give Professor Gladstone our regrets!”
“I’ll give you regrets!” Gaining his second wind, the footman sprinted toward them.
Crash!
The ticket clerk had shoved his luggage trolley across the platform and the footman ran into it, causing the trolley to topple and him to go down with it. Pumping a fist, the clerk whooped triumphantly. “For the caladrius!” he shouted.
As the footman groaned and the Fotheringhams reunited in preparation to give chase, Devon and Beth raced down a short ramp into the adjacent lane, where the curricle awaited. Someone, presumably Gladstone’s footman, had broken its wheels. The footman’s own horse stood nearby, grazing on wild grass at the side of the avenue, and Devon was debating whether he should steal it when a garishly colored bird flew overhead. It circled them, then aimed back toward the village, squawking, train station! train station!
“Psittacus inquisitor,” Beth identified grimly. Spy parrot.
Devon cursed. His mind began to sink with the weight of every possible decision he might make, and for a terrifying moment he simply could not move at all. Then Beth caught his hand and began tugging him.
“Just run,” she said, and he gratefully obeyed.
They reached a crossroads and saw a hansom cab in the distance, speeding through the village. “This way!” Beth ordered, and they turned south, following the road down beneath an arched stone bridge into a vista of sheep-strewn farmlands. Beth’s hand grew sweaty in Devon’s, and he could hear the strained labor of her breath. Only a frightening silence emitted from the birdcage. Devon wondered if they should leave the road to hide among bushes, but a glance back showed a horseman in pursuit, and he knew it was too late.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “Wait!”
“Devon.” Beth slowed her pace, making him stumble a little. “Stop.”
“We don’t need to be polite to our enemies!” he reminded her.
“No, really, stop! It’s the ticket clerk from the station.”
Devon glanced back with confused surprise. Indeed, the clerk was galloping toward them—or, more correctly, what appeared to be the footman’s horse was galloping toward them with the clerk hunched on its back, his goatee flapping like a tiny blond flag of surrender. Devon felt inclined to keep running, but Beth pulled free of his grip and waved to the clerk. Devon lifted his gaze heavenward, seeking patience, but then turned and stood beside the angel he’d already been sent. Perhaps she was right and they were not about to be captured and forced to deliver the caladrius back into Gladstone’s dubious care.
“Look at it this way,” Beth said. “We can always hijack the horse.”
Devon bit his lip so he didn’t laugh. Feet apart and arms crossed, he scowled as the clerk drew up before them.
“I’ve come to help!” the young man explained breathlessly, slithering down from the saddle and performing an old-fashioned bow to Beth. From the corner of his eye Devon could see her practically melting at the gesture, and his scowl grew more severe.
“You’re Professor Pickering, aren’t you?” the clerk said, pressing a hand against his heart as if he addressed the Queen herself. “I knew you were! I’m a big fan. The way you caught that whopper swan in Oxford with such grace and expertise was an inspiration to me as a professional luggage handler. And you must be Mr. Lockley.” He flicked a glance at Devon, then returned to swooning over Beth. “I know we have no time for autographs, or even for me to snip a lock of your hair—? Right, no time. But it is my honor to assist you. Also the man said you might turn up at the station and that if I helped, I’d get my name in the papers too. He said an evil professor was torturing the caladrius! So I’ve brought this horse for your escape.”
“Thank you,” Beth said so sincerely, the clerk hunched up his shoulders with bashful delight. Devon’s scowl went from severe to the equivalent of a winter storm in Antarctica. Shifting closer to Beth, he laid a hand on her back—not at all in a proprietary fashion, you understand, simply to have somewhere to put it.
“What man?” he asked.
“He said he was a PRESS agent,” the clerk told Beth as if Devon was merely her mouthpiece. “Black suit, mustache, briefcase. He said the caladrius was counting on me. Me. ”
“Gosh,” Beth responded obligingly.
“Horse theft is a significant crime,” Devon pointed out.
“Not when you’re doing it to save a bird!”
At that, Devon’s scowl eased slightly. “What’s your name?”
“Bastard!”
They all jolted at the sudden shout. Gladstone’s footman was pelting down the road toward them, followed by the Fotheringham sisters skimming above the road with the aid of helicopter parasols that were sparking and beginning to smoke. Farther back came a hansom cab carrying Herr Oberhufter. Hippolyta Quirm stood in its rear driver’s seat, looking like the warrior queen Boudicca, albeit with more orange lace. She whipped the horses into a speed that made Herr Oberhufter’s hat bob atop his head. Last of all, following at a respectful distance, were three carriages full of assorted servants and luggage.
“Go!” the clerk urged, flapping his hand. Immediately Beth handed the birdcage to Devon and mounted the horse with an efficiency that rejected another romantic moment. Devon passed her up the cage, then hoisted himself into the saddle, wrapping one arm around her waist as he grasped the reins in his other. There was only enough time for her to call out thanks to the clerk before they galloped off down the road, followed by roars from their pursuers.
“Halt!” Oberhufter demanded.
“Get out of my way, fools!” Hippolyta shouted at the Fotheringham sisters.
“Never!” they hollered in reply.
Crash!
Devon glanced back to see the hansom cab tilted sideways against a bush on the verge, the Fotheringham sisters tumbled in Oberhufter’s lap, and his hat rolling away down the road.
“Oh no!” Beth gasped. “Is everyone all right?”
Hippolyta’s furious “damn you, Oberhufter!” provided an answer. Beth slumped back with relief against Devon, and he held her tight, racing toward the hope of some safe, private place where he could embrace her properly, in peace.
Fifteen minutes later, the horse began limping, but almost immediately thereafter they came upon the Sir William coaching inn, in what could have been considered a miracle were they not scientists and, furthermore, this not England, land of hope, glory, and some hundred thousand public houses. They rode into the stable yard and dismounted.
“We’ll have to leave the horse here and continue on foot,” Devon said.
“Where are we even going?” Beth asked.
He squinted at the sun-bleached horizon. “Sheffield? And catch a train to Dover from there?”
“Good idea.” She peeked beneath the cage cover. “Feathers fluffed up, breathing unsteady,” she said as she assessed the caladrius’s condition. “But beak closed and eyes clear. The seed debris on the cage floor is sprouting, which suggests thaumaturgic activity.”
Lowering the cover, she bit her thumbnail, then grimaced at the taste of the dusty glove. Devon tried not to smile in sheer adoration, or for that matter to remove the glove and kiss her thumb, her hand, all the way along her arm to—
“I’m concerned,” she said, and he shook his head to restore focus. “Obviously Gladstone has been provoking the bird to use its power, but a caladrius that’s been drawing illness into itself must cleanse it by flying high into the sunlight. How long can a juvenile survive without doing so?”
“I don’t know,” Devon admitted. “So much of the available information about the bird is mythology.”
Beth sighed, her expression sobering. “Why did I not think about its possible fate before I entered the competition?”
“I didn’t either,” Devon admitted. “I trusted IOS’s professional integrity.”
“So did I. Obviously I should have been more cynical.”
He took her hand before she could attack the thumb again. “Don’t think like that. They should have been more trustworthy. Anyway, we’re here now, and it’s our decisions from this point on that matter. I suggest we take the bird to a sanctuary.”
“Which one?”
“L’Abri à Bergerac,” he said. “It’s where I sent the deathwhistler, and I know it to be reputable. They’ll protect the caladrius even if the entire IOS executive committee comes knocking on their door.”
“That sounds good. So back to France, then. But first, might we purchase some food from the inn? An apple, some nuts, some crusts of bread?”
“I think I can afford to buy us better than that,” Devon assured her wryly.
“I meant for the caladrius. Its seed and water supplies are adequate, but it ought to have a varied diet.”
Devon tried not to roll his eyes with fond amusement. “And you, Miss Pickering? Are you hungry?”
She blinked with surprise at the question. Then shyness darkened her gaze like a summer storm, and Devon would have bet that no one had asked her such a thing in a very long time. “I’ll buy you some lunch,” he said, just to watch the storm deepen and her eyelashes lower sweetly, just to make her feel nice. “Will you wait here with the horse?”
She nodded, and he squeezed her hand gently before releasing it and turning toward the inn. But he’d taken only a few steps before he simply had to look back, compelled by the gravity between them.
Beth was stroking the horse’s neck, murmuring praise and promises of hay. The late morning sunlight blossomed around her, turning her long, loose hair into a wealth of bright treasure. Devon stared transfixed, every other thought forgotten.
And that was how he missed the parrot skimming past the inn before circling to fly north again, singing here, here .
—
Beth watched from the corner of her eye as Devon went through the inn’s side door. The way he’d held her hand, not to mention the thrilling interest he’d shown in her digestion status, created a fluttering sensation all over her skin, as though she wore nothing but a feather boa. She wished she could forget about the International Ornithological Society for a while and convince him that they should take a room in the inn—a room with only one bed and a sturdy lock on its door.
She gasped at the thought, then gasped again because the first one had not been shock at her impropriety but delight at the imaginings it inspired.
And yet, how could she indulge in such imaginings about a man for whom she held so little data? She’d disliked Devon Lockley…been aggravated by him…felt attracted to him…kissed him…fallen in love with him, and it had felt like everything. But what was his favorite bird? Had he ever encountered a ghost owl? Who were his family? Would he mind terribly if she ripped off his shirt and kissed every inch of his naked torso?
“Hello!”
The greeting jabbed her awareness; turning, she found a young stable hand beside her.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as if he might have somehow discerned her thoughts.
He tugged his forelock. Drops of sweat flicked off it to create tiny, murky puddles on his dirt-streaked face. “Can I help you, mi— Hey, wait! You’re that lady from the newspaper!” His gaze flicked from her to the birdcage, then back again at speed, barely giving her enough time to roll her eyes wearily. “The orthilochist lady what’s doing the Birder of the Year competition! Cor blimey!”
“Um,” Beth said.
“Where’s your American lover? Oh no, you ain’t back to being rivals?”
“Uh…”
“Is that cage for when you catch the caladrius?”
“Er.”
“Wait until Jenny hears about this! She loves birds! The flying kind, that is. Well, and t’other kind.” He winked in such a risqué manner that Beth took a step back. “Just wait here a mo’ and I’ll go tell her! Bleedin’ hell, an actual famous orthilochist!”
“Um,” Beth reiterated, to no avail. The stable hand dashed off, leaving her reeling from their conversation.
“Good grief,” she muttered. “Why do people have to people?”
“Vulgar cretin!” Hippolyta shouted.
Beth almost laughed. Trust Hippolyta to phrase it in a more blatant way, she thought, turning to raise her eyebrow at the woman—then suffered a belated jolt of alarm as she realized, Hippolyta! Ducking behind the horse, she looked around urgently but could not see her former associate anywhere.
“Must you shout, madam?!” arose another voice with no concern for the irony of its own volume. Beth comprehended that Hippolyta and Oberhufter, and God knows who else, were approaching close upon the inn.
She had mere seconds to act before they either passed its frontage and saw her in the stable yard—or stopped and, entering the building, discovered Devon therein. She looked around, trying to assess all possible escape routes, but before she could decide upon one, the inn’s side door flung open and Devon emerged at a run. Relief propelled Beth toward him, and he grasped her arm of course, towing her inside the stables. One second later, a hansom cab arrived in the yard, driven by Gladstone’s footman and with Hippolyta and Herr Oberhufter crammed into its seat, the Fotheringham sisters each balancing precariously on a step at either side. Behind it came the servants’ carriages.
Ducking behind the stable’s open door, Beth and Devon peered through a gap between the hinges as the ornithologists climbed down from the cab, squabbling the entire time.
“We won’t be able to hide for long,” Beth whispered. “The horse proves that we’re here.”
Peep , the caladrius agreed.
Just then, the stable hand entered through the stable’s far door. Devon whistled quietly through his teeth and the boy came to an abrupt halt, noticing them in their hiding place. As he drew breath to speak, Beth placed a finger to her lips, urging silence. She pointed in the direction of the yard and mouthed the words avaricious opponents . The boy frowned with unsurprising bewilderment.
“I know you’re here, Elizabeth!” Hippolyta shouted. “Just hand over the bird and no one will get hurt! Except that Cambridge lout. And, well, you too, a little bit. I’m sure you understand; this is ornithology, after all!”
Comprehension dawned on the stable hand’s face. He hurried over, joining them in the shadows behind the door and forcing them to cram themselves farther into the corner.
“You got the caladrius in that cage, yeah?” he whispered. When Beth and Devon nodded, his excitement shone so brightly, he almost looked clean. “Keep your pecker up! I’ll bamboozle the rotters while you saw your timber.”
Now Beth was the one to frown in bewilderment. But there was no time to request a translation.
“We need to get to Sheffield, to catch a train south,” Devon said.
“That’s easy. You just go some three hours up the east road. Cut down through the gardens behind here, that’ll get you in a jiffy to the village, then Bob’s your uncle.”
“I don’t have a jiffy,” Beth said. “Or an uncle.”
Devon smiled at her. “He means…never mind. Let’s go.”
“The name’s Jack Scrottley, by the way,” the boy said, “in case you happen to talk to any newspaper reporters.”
He held out his grubby hand and Beth automatically shook it, silently thanking her gloves’ manufacturer and reminding herself not to chew her thumbnail anytime soon. Then he hurried away, and as they heard him greet the ornithologists, Beth and Devon ran along the stable’s alleyway and out the back door, a booming echo of Hippolyta’s voice chasing them like a Siberian saber-toothed canary.