‘Easy,’ called Chaloner softly, when he saw her falter, unwilling to walk past the man.
‘I cannot let you take the consequences for something I did,’ she replied unsteadily. ‘It is not fair. I should never have agreed to it.’
‘It is too late now. Go home, before your hesitation puts us both in danger.’
Reluctantly, she entered the garden of her house, while Chaloner continued along the Strand. He glanced behind him when he reached the corner, and saw Snow still watching. The ruse had worked. He rode towards the river, then eased the horse into a trot. Snow sped up, and Chaloner took a sharp left, but found himself in an alley barely wide enough for the animal to pass. The pony did not like the sensation of buildings hemming it in, and began to buck. Snow hauled a pistol from his belt and took aim. Chaloner ducked, and the shot blew to pieces a swinging sign above his head. The sound was shockingly loud in the confined space.
The horse bolted. It raced down the alley, and its hooves drew sparks when it reached the end and tried to make a hard right-hand turn. Snow tugged a second weapon from his coat, not taking the time to reload the first. The pony thundered on, then reared suddenly when its path was blocked by a stack of roofing tiles. Snow’s footsteps echoed behind, and he gave a brief shout of satisfaction when he saw his quarry trapped. Chaloner tried to turn, intending to ride Snow down, but there was no room for such a manoeuvre and the horse knew it. It started to gallop towards the tiles, and Chaloner braced himself for the impact. Then he was airborne, wind whistling past his ears. A sharp click sounded when a hoof connected with the highest tile, and then they were across. He grabbed the beast’s mane to keep his balance as it cavorted back towards the Strand, and Snow’s second shot was fired more in frustration than in any real hope of hitting its target.
Chaloner was grateful the landlord of the Golden Lion knew him, because it meant he did not demand advance payment for the horse’s lodging. He lingered in the tavern, partly to warm himself by the fire before he went to his icy garret, and partly to ensure Snow had not traced the tortuous route he had taken home. Nothing was amiss after an hour, and he left the inn with some reluctance. He smiled when he saw Temperance returning from a late prayer-meeting at the chapel, although she looked as though she had just spent an hour sitting next to a live cannon.
‘What did Hill rave about this time?’ he asked, watching her face light up when she saw him.
‘Turning the other cheek, although he is actually rather a vengeful man.’
‘Why does your father not hire someone more moderate?’
‘Hill was once attacked by brutal men who hated his religion, and my father feels a kinship with him because he suffered the same treatment, as did my brother. He knows Hill is a danger to us, and spends a lot of time asking God to make him more temperate.’
Chaloner wondered whether the incident Hill had related to North was actually the time he had spent in the Buckingham stocks for iconoclasm. ‘Then let us hope God hears him.’
She brushed aside his concerns. ‘Where is your hat? You should not be bareheaded on such a night – you will take a chill.’
Chaloner gave her a brief flash of Sarah’s headwear, which he had shoved in his pocket after the escapade with Snow. ‘I was hot.’
‘That is not yours,’ she said immediately. ‘That belongs to a woman.’ Her voice fell to a horrified whisper, so the last words might equally well have been ‘the devil’.
‘I must have picked up the wrong one,’ he said, wondering how she came to be so well acquainted with his clothing – it was dark, and he had only offered her a glimpse. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘Not to me,’ said Temperance. She regarded him uneasily. ‘Do you have a lady friend?’
‘Not one with whom I exchange clothes,’ replied Chaloner. He saw she was not amused. ‘It belongs to someone you know – Sarah Dalton. She is happily married to someone else.’
‘Sarah?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘She is not happily married! Her brother advised her not to take Dalton, but she ignored him and has regretted it ever since. Poor Sarah. How do you know her?’
‘I am hoping to do some translating for her husband.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded relieved. ‘Will you come inside? I made knot biscuits today, and I do not think Preacher Hill finished them all when he visited us earlier. He came to deal with the turkey.’
Chaloner accepted willingly, hoping she might provide other food, too, and that Metje might be there. He wanted her to visit him that night, because it would be warmer in bed with two than one, and it was time their differences were forgotten. He followed Temperance into the comfortable sitting room at the front of the house, where the Norths and their servants gathered in the evenings. It was a pleasant chamber, dominated by its hearth and long oaken table. North sat at one end, reading under a lamp, while Faith sat at the other with a pile of darning. The servants ranged themselves in between: as in many Puritan homes, masters and servants mingled, all equal in the eyes of the Lord.
The household was small, but Chaloner had always sensed it was a happy one. The two maids were practising their handwriting under Metje’s watchful eye, while the men – named Henry and Giles – sharpened knives. There was a dish of dried fruit to assuage any hunger pangs remaining after supper, and a posset bubbled over the fire, to be drunk before everyone retired to bed. Metje glanced up, then turned her attention back to her students. Her coolness meant nothing, because she always ignored him when they were in the presence of the Norths. Nevertheless, he pushed Sarah’s hat and wig further inside his pocket, not wanting accusations of infidelity to add to their troubles.
‘Do not go in the kitchen, Miss Temperance,’ cried Henry in alarm, as the daughter of the house raised her hand to the latch. ‘The turkey is in there.’
‘We are lucky it is not in here,’ said North, standing to greet Chaloner. ‘It had designs on spending the night by the fire, and I was hard-pressed to prevent it from doing so. Wretched beast!’
‘It is still alive?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought Hill was going to kill it with his Bible – or his pistol.’
‘The gun flashed in the pan, and the Bible only served to annoy it,’ replied Faith. She looked furious, and her small eyes glittered. ‘It guessed what he intended to do and went for him. I will not shock you with details, Thomas, but suffice to say it is a good thing he stands to preach his sermons.’
Chaloner turned to the menservants, indicating the arsenal of blades in front of them. ‘What about you two? Surely you are not both afraid of a bird?’
‘It is not a bird,’ replied Henry coolly. ‘It is a turkey.’
‘And I do not kill God’s creations, either,’ added North, before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘I only eat them. Besides, I do not mind admitting that the thing has me terrified. It is a demon.’
‘I have never had trouble killing things before,’ said Faith. ‘But I did not like the feel of its neck when I grabbed it. It was like holding a snake, and I could not maintain my grip long enough to cut its throat. It was not like dispatching a person, which I was obliged to do several times during the wars.’
‘Where are the knot biscuits?’ asked Temperance, while Chaloner regarded Faith uneasily. She had related some of her war experiences before, and he was under the impression that she had endured a bloodier time of it than he had – and he had been in several major battles.