A Lady’s Secret (24 page)

“Damn, though that could be useful. He’ll know if strange Italians turn up there. I need to write to him, too.”

“I believe I have paper enough.”

“Rathbone?” Robin asked. “I suppose he’s in Derbyshire. Ashart?”

“Working like a busy bee on restoration of the moldering Surrey pile. Marriage,” Thorn said with a sad shake of his head.

“Perfect,” Robin said. “He can use another pair of hands.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted. As will you—here is your vile potion.”

“No man with a soul can dislike coffee,” Robin said as the footman poured coffee into a cup, added sugar and cream, and delivered it to Robin. They all knew how he liked it. Robin inhaled, sighed, and sipped.

“I have no idea why I indulge you in that vice.”

Robin fluttered his lashes. “For love.” But he turned serious. “Any news yet?”

“Hardly. We’ll hear as soon as anyone returns.”

Though seething inside, Robin settled to drinking coffee and writing letters. It was the only useful thing he could do. He asked Christian to be alert for Italians, especially a man of Varzi’s description or a woman of Petra’s. He sent to the Marquess of Ashart at Cheynings, Surrey, alerting him to the arrival of Powick and Fontaine. He wrote extensive instructions to his secretary, Trevelyan, about the security of his people in London, and included instructions to Powick for removal to Surrey.

All in all, it was exhausting.

The arrival of a Dr. Brown, middle-aged, authoritative, and very Scottish, gave some hope that he’d soon be able to take action. As Robin watched the man unwrap the bandage, however, fear stirred. Surely he’d feel something if it was already putrefying?

“Satisfactory,” Dr. Brown eventually declared.

“Excellent. Stitch it up, sir, so I can get about my business.”

“By no means, my lord! There is nothing more dangerous than trapping the poison inside.”

“I need to get up, to be able to ride.”

“You need to kill yourself, then.”

They glared at one another, but the doctor was master of this domain and Robin had good reason to know he was correct. Damn it all to Hades.

“Tomorrow, my lord, if the wound still looks well and shows signs of good healing, I will consider the stitches. Until then, keep that leg as still as possible. Keep it still, or I take no responsibility for the consequences. None at all.”

When Brown left, Thorn said, “Anyone would think you’ve never been wounded before.”

“Don’t think I have, since boyhood, anyway.”

“A charmed life. Let’s hope it holds.”

“Petra’s the one in danger, not me.”

“Completely of her own choosing.”

“No,” Robin said. “If I’d managed things better, she wouldn’t have felt she had to go.”

Thorn’s brow twitched, but he wisely didn’t comment. Instead he went to collect maps of the area, and they tried to work out what route Petra might have taken. The only result was to show the infinite number of them.

As the long day passed, inactivity became torment.

Reports came in of glimpses of a woman in a red cloak, and Petra had almost certainly begged for a drink at one small farm. Men were sent to scour that area, but only hours after the sighting. Robin studied that part of the map, even though he knew it was pointless.

Where was she going? A watch on the main roads had turned up nothing, as had inquiries at coaching inns. Was she walking every step of the way? The scraps they received showed no firm direction, and every hour that passed expanded the places where she could be.

Evening began to pale the view outside the window, signaling night, with all its dangers. Robin felt sick with fear for her, but also because he was coming to think that she truly could disappear into England, never to be seen again. He picked up the rosary lying on the table beside his bed. Did it work for those who had no faith in the beads? He fingered them anyway, attempting prayer.

Petra’s stomach was cramping, so in a small village, she risked buying some bread and cheese and some of the thin beer the English drank. She said she was walking to seek work in London, and that was accepted so easily she felt she’d found a story to tell in other places.

Heartened, she set out again, but had to take more frequent rests, and it was harder and harder to start up again. But then, as she leaned on a tree trunk, wondering which of two paths to take, a young man ran by. She was off the path and in dappled shade, and perhaps her dress blended with nature. For whatever reason, he didn’t notice her.

She heard him call out to someone, however, and risked looking out. A man was coming down the path with a bundle of sticks on his back, and the lad was asking something about a woman in a red cloak. The man shook his head and the lad ran on, but Petra swallowed. So Robin was indeed searching, and if men were hunting her here, the search must be extensive. How could they have any idea where she was? She didn’t know. But then she remembered the place she’d begged for water. Perhaps they’d also found the inn where she’d bought food. With regret, she stuffed the red cloak deep beneath a hedge.

Warily, she retraced her steps, then took another path across a cow field and into nowhere. The day was paling into evening now, so she had to face the prospect of sleeping outdoors at night. She didn’t think she could do it, but she couldn’t risk seeking a room at an inn. In any case, it was unlikely they’d let her in, looking such a vagrant. Would she be breaking some law if she slept in a barn or crept into a farm outbuilding?

She was trudging along a footpath, feeling close to despair, when the hedge to her right shrank lower. A church spire not far ahead told her she was coming into a village. She heard a woman call a child and a dog bark. She halted, knowing she should turn, but to go where? At the end of her resources, she walked on, half hoping to be caught, to be gathered back into Robin Bonchurch’s protection.

“Good evening.”

Petra started, her heart pounding madly. The hedge was chest high now, and an elderly woman was looking over it at her. Brown, leathery skin was topped by an enormously wide straw hat with steel gray hair escaping in all directions. She was leaning on some tool, but Petra could only see the long handle.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Petra said, and hurried on.

“Where you off to, then?” the woman called.

To run away would make her look like a thief, so Petra turned back. “London,” she said.

“Long way, that be, Lunnon.”

“I fear so.”

“Not that way, either. Lunnon be north of ’ere.”

“Then I’ll turn north when I can.” Petra tried to speak without an accent, but knew she was failing. She smiled and moved on again.

“Why you going there?” the woman called.

Her interest drew Petra like a warm fire. She turned back. “I’m looking for work.”

The woman wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her dirty, knotty hand, leaving a streak. “You can weed ’ere for supper if you want.”

Petra looked past her at rows of neat plants and had to confess, “I wouldn’t know the weeds.”

The woman nodded. “Thought you sounded a bit of a lady.”

“Sometimes ladies have to find work.”

“Suppose so. Where you from, then, with dark eyes like that? Abroad?”

Petra suddenly wanted honesty, and it could make no difference. “Italy,” she said.

“Fancy that! I’ll give you supper for some stories. It’d be grand to hear about Italy.”

It might be wiser to go on, but Petra ached for food and simple kindness and gave in. “Then thank you.”

“Come in through the gate,” the woman said, and stumped off toward the house with a gait that suggested sore hips.

Petra followed and found herself in yet another kitchen. She smiled sadly at the thought of her many kitchen adventures, all shared with Robin. This was a tiny room, however, with a small hearth built into the wall. An open door showed a small parlor beyond, with only a few bits of simple furniture.

“I’m Mistress Waddle,” the woman said, swinging a pot over the fire.

If any of Petra’s pursuers tracked her here, petty lies wouldn’t serve. “Miss d’Averio,” she said. “Can I help in some way?”

“No, sit you down. You look as if you’ve walked a ways today. I’ve some soup ’ere, and bread. Simple fare.” She might be embarrassed about it.

“That sounds wonderful. It smells wonderful, too.” Unlike the crone’s foul brew.
Don’t think of that, because all such thoughts lead to Robin.

“There’s a bit of ’am ’ock in it,” Mistress Waddle said proudly. “Are you thirsty? There’s water in that pitcher there.”

Petra stood, alarmed by the effort it took, filled a chipped cup, and drank.

“Italy,” Mistress Waddle said, standing sideways as she watched her pot. “I suppose that means you’re a Papist.”

“I’m afraid so.” Would that get her thrown out?

“Takes all sorts, that’s what I always say. Why’re you tramping England, then, dear? For I can tell you’re not used to it.”

Petra agreed ruefully, wondering what to say. She didn’t want to lie, but the truth was complicated. She learned from Cock Robin and adapted it.

“I was a lady’s maid,” she said, sitting down again, “hired by an English lady in Milan. But she only wanted my services until she reached home, so when we arrived in Dover, she cast me off.”

“Wicked cruel, that be. Why go up to Lunnon, though? Fearsome big place, they say, Lunnon, and full of sin.”

“I have family there. That’s why I was willing to leave Italy.” Petra suddenly thought of a useful twist. “In truth, ma’am, my lady’s husband took an attraction to me. Of course, I wanted nothing to do with him, but she could not bear it. That is why I don’t even know where I am. I was afraid to take the direct route to London for fear he would pursue me. Please, if a gentleman comes this way asking for me, do not betray me.”

“Be sure I won’t, dearie, but pretty as you are, you’ll have that problem again and again.”

“I know,” Petra said, and didn’t have to invent a sigh. “My looks are my ruin.”

“Need a good man, you do.”

“As do all women.”

“Not me,” the woman said with a gap-toothed laugh. “I’ve buried two and I’m done with ’em. I’ve three daughters married well and two sons who don’t forget their mother, so I’ve no need of a man as old as me, expecting to be cared for like another baby.”

Petra had to laugh, too, but sadness was welling up and might produce tears soon. She’d found a small haven here, but it could be no more permanent than any other haven she’d found in recent years. Soon she’d have to leave, to go out again into the wild. To be hunted in the night.

“Do you have somewhere to stop tonight, dearie?”

Petra studied Mistress Waddle’s kind face and said, “No.”

“Then stay here. No arguing. I can’t do with you wandering the roads in the dark, and you could maybe use a few bits of extra clothing, as well. I’ve nothing suitable for the likes of you, of course, but there’s some old things of me daughters’ as might fit. That way you can save your better stuff. You don’t want to turn up at your London relatives’ with days of dirt on you.”

Petra stared at the generous woman. “I’d be very grateful, Mistress Waddle. I can pay—”

“No, no, none of that! I’m enjoying the company. You just tell me about Italy, and the clothes and jewels the fine ladies wear, and I’ll be in your debt.”

Petra had to fight tears, and perhaps Mistress Waddle knew, for she turned tactfully to her pot.

So Petra spent a pleasant evening. She accepted the old clothes with true gratitude, even though they were indeed worn and mended almost to death. They were clean and had been stored in lavender. Once in them, she brushed and damp-wiped her gown and petticoat and hung them on the line outside to freshen. She lingered in the sunset, allowing some sweet thoughts and memories before burying them deep in her mind.

She turned to admire the tiny garden, utilized to the full with rows of vegetables and beans growing on tall stakes. A small structure of bits of wood was a henhouse, and three hens pecked around the garden. Herbs grew by the doorstep—lavender, mint, savory, dill, and others—and heavily perfumed sweet peas wound through some dead sticks up against the back window.

Heavenly in one sense, but she saw the sagging lines of the cottage and the ill-fitting doors and windows that probably let in icy drafts in winter. She would leave some coins for Mistress Waddle and send more if she were ever settled.

A cat slunk into the garden, paused, and then streaked into the house. When Petra entered, she found it curled by the kitchen hearth at Mistress Waddle’s feet. So the woman had some company, at least.

They ate the nourishing food, and then spent the rest of the evening in the little parlor. Petra shared some mending tasks while entertaining her hostess with stories. In return, she learned that Mistress Waddle wasn’t at all lonely. Most of her family lived in the village of Speenhurst and were generally in and out all the time.

Eventually, Mistress Waddle lit a tallow candle, but it gave too little light for needlework, and in any case, Petra was very tired. She suspected the lady usually went to bed with the sun, so asked to retire. She went up to the attic, where she’d already made up one of the four narrow beds. She stripped down to her threadbare shift and settled under the colorful quilt.

A clean, well-aired bed will do, in a clean room. In a room entirely for myself.

That’s what she’d asked from Robin, oh, so long ago, and this was as close as she’d come. She prayed that his leg was healing well and that soon he’d feel he’d done his duty and could get on with his life.

P
etra woke to a cock crowing, pulled out of a dream in which she and Robin had been searching for each other at a masked ball, with masked enemies constantly intervening. She lay there in the morning light, letting the frantic urgency fade. She knew where he was—Stowting, being cared for by his friend “Captain Rose.” But he would be worried.

She remembered how kind he was to Coquette, even though he didn’t really want the dog, and how genuinely he’d been concerned for his servants at Mère Goulart’s.

Men were trained to be protective of women, and some took that seriously. She supposed he did.

She sat up. There was nothing for it. She must find a way to get a message to him to assure him she was all right. She got out of bed, wincing at some stiffness, and dressed in her new clothes. Over her shift, she tied on a linen skirt that had probably once been brown, but which had been washed and faded to a motley beige. She added a rust-colored sleeveless bodice that laced up the front, grateful that this one was a little large rather than in danger of popping. The plain, elbow-length sleeves of the shift covered her arms. There was also a floppy-frilled mobcap that hid her face, and a brown knitted shawl.

She went downstairs and the old woman beamed at her. “Sleep well, dear?”

“Very well, thank you. You’ve been so kind.”

“Not at all. It’s been a treat for me. Sit you down and have an egg.”

There was only coarse bread and water on the table, but the woman cooked an egg for each of them, and put out a bowl of plums from her tree. As they ate the simple food, Mistress Waddle said, “Are you sure you want to go on, dear?”

Petra smiled at her. “I can’t stay here. No, I have a destination, but it isn’t London.”

“Ah. Then where do you go?”

Even now, an instinct for secrecy made Petra name only a town en route. After all, one of Robin’s searchers might find this place. “Guildford. It’s southwest of London.”

“Never heard of it,” the old woman said, “but Thad Hythe at the Three Cocks likely has.”

Cocks. Robin. An omen? Coquette. Cock Robin. The Coq d’Or. The Three Cocks.

“I’d also like to send a letter, but I have no idea how it is done in England.” Or whether she could conceal its origins.

“A letter,” Mistress Waddle echoed, as if Petra had said, “I would like to catch a unicorn.” “Parson would have pen and paper, and Squire, and probably Mistress Kershaw as lives near the church, but…”

“Please don’t concern yourself,” Petra said quickly.

“I wouldn’t want to send it from here, anyway.”

Mistress Waddle nodded, but Petra knew that she’d ruined any illusion that her problems were minor. “Thad’ll likely have paper and pen. Has to do a bit of writing and reckoning, running the tavern. We’ll walk down after we’ve eaten.”

As they walked into the small village, however, Petra knew this was unwise. Any hunters coming through here would learn all about Mistress Waddle’s foreign guest. Everyone gave them a cheery greeting. Often it was Ellie, twice it was Ma, and once Gran. Everyone asked, “Who’s that with you?”

To each Mistress Waddle said, “Nice young lady from abroad. Helping her on her way.”

The Three Cocks was merely a cottage that did its business in the front room, and the inn sign was crudely painted on the front wall. They went around the back, where Mistress Waddle called a cheery “Good morning” as she walked in through the open door.

After a surprised but welcoming flurry of greetings, the story was told.

“Lawks!” exclaimed Mistress Hythe, stocky and high colored. “I’ll get paper and things, though Lord knows when it was last used.”

“Guildford, eh?” said Thad Hythe, who was tall and thin. “Sit a while, Auntie. And you, ma’am.”

Petra sat, smiling at her hostess. “Is the whole village related to you?”

The woman chuckled. “Not quite, dearie. Thad’s my cousin Megsy’s boy, but I suppose that counts.”

Speenhurst was a close community of friends and family and Petra envied them, but then she thought how poor most of them seemed to be. Poor, but not complaining, and they did seem to have tolerable houses and enough food, even if it was all simple. Happiness and security came in many forms.

Mistress Hythe came back with two sheets of cheap paper, a few quills, and a little pot. “Ink’s dry,” she said, “but a bit of water’ll fix that.”

Petra inspected a quill, asked for a sharp knife, and mended the point. When the ink was ready she dipped and then thought to ask, “What day and date is it?” How strange not to know.

“It’s Friday, ma’am. The twentieth of July.”

Petra wrote that at the top, trying to decide what to say. The ink was thin and the paper rough, so this was going to be a sorry piece of work, but it was the words that mattered. She must avoid expressions of fondness, but she didn’t want it to be cold.

That was unsatisfactory, but it would have to do.

She knew what she had to include.

“There, see,” said Mistress Waddle with pride, “doesn’t that look pretty?”

Petra looked up to see the others watching, as if she were performing some remarkable feat. As she folded the note, she resolved that one day she’d send the kind lady a piece of perfect penmanship on thick, smooth paper. She wouldn’t be able to read it for herself, but Petra knew she’d enjoy it.

“I have a bit of sealing wax,” Mr. Hythe said with pride and produced it and a candle. He carefully dripped red wax onto the flap, and Petra pressed it down with the handle of a knife that lay on the table. To settle it, she pressed again with her finger, remembering Robin’s signet. That had been proof of a lie, however—that he had lied in some way about his identity.

She turned the letter, and dipped her pen again and wrote:

She rose and thanked them. “I’ll find a way to send it farther down the road.”

Mr. Hythe had been thinking. “Guildford, eh? You want the Maidstone to Guildford Road, then. Good road, that is, and just up north of here.”

“There would be coaches? How much would a seat on a coach cost?” She was sure she couldn’t walk another full day.

“That’d be costly, miss, but you can travel cheap by wagon.”

“Wagon?”

“Lots of wagons on the Guildford Road, carrying goods, see? Travels slow, no faster than walking, but cheap. Saves your soles,” he added with a chuckle that meant nothing to Petra.

“Soles on your shoes, dear,” Mistress Waddle said. “And your eternal soul. I suppose it’s different when English isn’t your own language.”

“Yes, it is,” Petra said with a smile, but again her thoughts turned back to Robin. What had it been? Kicking heels.

She made herself think about her journey. She wanted to travel as fast as possible, but if she depleted her money she would be in a desperate situation if Lord Rothgar rejected her, or if she decided it was wisest to flee. A few extra days now would do no harm.

“I think I would like to travel by wagon,” she said.

“Then we can help you on your way. Alice is off to visit her sister near Micklebury. That’s almost to the Guildford Road. And,” said Mr. Hythe, clearly delighted to be the guide, “she could put your letter in the post there.”

Petra thanked him warmly. “How much will it cost to send the letter?”

“Nothing if you reckon the person getting it’ll pay.”

Petra considered that, but surely “Captain Rose” would pay for this letter. He was clearly not short of money, whereas she was.

She returned to the cottage to put her other clothing into a bundle made of the better half of a worn-out sheet. She accepted some bread from Mistress Waddle and tucked a silver sixpence behind a pot where her hostess wouldn’t find it for a while. Later she’d find a way to properly repay this astonishing kindness, but for now, she simply hugged the woman before hurrying back to the Three Cocks.

Mistress Hythe was waiting in a small, two-wheeled vehicle drawn by a donkey. She called farewell to her husband and clicked the animal into action. Thus Petra bounced off into her second day on the road, giving thanks for being well rested, well fed, and having a fairly clear plan for her journey. What’s more, her appearance was so changed that any hounds still on her trail would fail entirely.