“I’m tellin’ you, Randy, for the last time, you do that once more and you’ll. . you’ll live to regret it!”
“What I do is my own business, and I won’t be bullied by a bumpkin farmer like you, you cowardly son of a bitch!”
“I don’t need no musket to make me a man, you prancin’ peacock!”
“If you weren’t my brother-in-law, I’d beat the living shit out of you right here and now!”
“You just remember what I said: no more, ya hear? I can make your name mud all over the county. And I. . I got a shotgun in my shed I use to kill rats and foxes and other vermin!”
“You snivelling little bastard. You think I’m afraid of you or anybody else? And don’t you forget, I can have you charged with treason in the wink of an eye. Only the fact that you’re my wife’s favourite brother stops me from-”
“The Scanlons were my neighbours, for Christ’s sake. What was I to do, turn the women and kids inta the bush to freeze! We’re farmers and Christians out in the country, not-”
There was a brief scuffling sound, some ferocious panting, then silence. Finally, two doors farther down the hall opened and closed discreetly.
Marc lay back, carefully placing the loaded pistol on his chest pointing away from him. He was hoping to spend a few minutes mulling over the significance of what he had just heard but was asleep before he could get started.
When he woke up again, he found he was still tired and aching now in places he had not previously noticed. From the angle of the sun across the chamber, he could tell that the morning was well advanced. He was happy that the party would be spending the day resting here. Owen had been right about the fragile state of his constitution: he was a long way from full recovery.
Then he remembered why he was curled up inside the wardrobe with his pistol. He looked over at the bed, then the door. No-one had come in to disturb his dreams or worse. Well, he mused, I’ve survived an eventful day and a night. What else can happen?
TEN
When Marc entered the dining-room, it was empty except for Adelaide Brookner. She sat alone, darkly resplendent in her mourning clothes, picking at some food growing cold on her plate. While her gown was low-cut in the current fashion, she had arranged a copious crepe scarf so that it covered her chest and neck almost to the chin, giving the effect of an Elizabethan ruff. Her expression was unreadable, as if all thought and feeling had been sucked inward and she hadn’t bothered to put a face on for the world. There was a slump of resignation to her posture, and it was all the more striking because there was an ingrained and obviously cherished pride in her person. She reminded Marc of the proud and intelligent Winnifred Hatch, now Mrs. Thomas Goodall. Just outside the front entrance he could hear the jangle of sleigh-bells. He walked into the breakfast-room and sat down opposite Adelaide Brookner.
“Good morning, ma’am. I seem to have overslept.”
Adelaide looked up and said tonelessly, “It was meant to be a leisurely day.”
“With a sleigh-ride, I presume, got up by our enterprising host?”
“To admire the sights of Cornwall,” she said, looking to her food. But there was more energy in her response. “Such as they are,” she added.
“I’ve seen them more than once,” Marc said. “I shall offer my regrets.”
“So you have regrets to give, have you?”
“Haven’t we all?”
She did not reply.
“You’re not partaking of the entertainment, then?”
“I’ve already tendered my regrets,” she said, with a trace of irony in her tone.
Marc went to the sideboard, where the cook, having seen him enter, had piled fresh bacon and sausage. Marc filled his plate, adding bran cakes, hot rolls, and marmalade. He poured out a mug of tea and returned to Adelaide.
She appeared ready to rise when he said softly, “You must miss your sister very much.”
Adelaide sat back as if she had been struck. When she lifted her face up to look at him, her eyes were filled with tears. “Marion was the only true friend I had in the world.”
“But surely there is your brother Percy, and, of course, your husband.”
She sniffed, as if he had just told an inappropriate joke, but she did not elaborate on that response.
Further discussion was stymied by Mr. Malvern banging open the front door and bursting into the reception area with his cheeks steaming and his eyes wild. His lips were working, like a basso rehearsing before a mirror, but no sound emerged. He spotted Marc.
“Oh, sir,” he wailed. “Come quickly. Something terrible’s happened!”
Marc rushed past him, winced as his gimpy leg rebelled, slowed to a measured trot, and went out into the frosty air to assess the damage. Behind him, from the smoker, he heard several others follow in his wake. A four-seat cutter and two Clydesdales stood serenely just outside the front door. A commotion to his left revealed two figures heading towards him from the direction of the stables: Gander Todd and Captain Brookner, the latter glittering in his tunic, breeches, and buckled sword.
“I warned him not to go walking on his own!” Malvern wailed again, this time behind Marc.
Brookner strutted up. “It’s a lot of nonsense,” he was saying to Todd, who was hobbling along beside his employer, bugeyed and clearly frightened. “Malvern, I specifically told you not to go blabbering on about this and scaring the life out of people!”
Malvern looked abashed but still resolute. “I thought the lieutenant should know.”
“Know what?” Marc asked, rubbing his arms in the cold.
Brookner, who seemed immune to cold and thrived on long, dangerous walks, snorted and said to the small throng that had now gathered around him, “This ridiculous note.” And he waved a sheet of writing paper in the air with a dismissive flap.
“I found it in the coach, pinned to the seat, when I went to sweep it out,” Gander Todd said breathlessly.
“You’d better let me see it, then,” Marc said, and Brookner, not disliking the attention he had attracted, preened and feigned indifference: “Here, then.”
Marc skimmed the note, then decided to read it aloud. The message was printed in block capitals from hand-pressed wooden blocks. “Brookner: we have you in our sights. Revenge will be sweet. The Stormont Vigilantes.”
“It’s a death-threat!” Malvern sputtered. “And I warned the captain against going for his walk, I did.” He glared at Brookner. “Why, you could’ve been murdered, sir, right here on my own property.”
“Nonsense! I shall continue to take my morning constitutional, come what may.”
Percy Sedgewick stepped forward, looking hungover and miserable. “It sounds like the Scanlons to me. Young Miles is on the loose, you know.”
“Of course, I know. And for once I think you’re right. These woods aren’t brimming with rebel vigilantes: they’re all busy running for their lives. Miles Scanlon’s on his own, of that you can be sure. But we’ve got every road and ferry-crossing between here and Niagara covered. He won’t escape. And if he thinks he’s going to pot me before he jumps the border, he’ll find himself dead or on his way to a gibbet.”
A great buzzing and murmuring rolled through the crowd, along with sundry bits of advice and admonition. Finally, Marc said, “I think it best for all concerned if we change our plans and make for Prescott immediately.”
“We can’t get there today,” Sedgewick said. “But we could make Morrisburg.”
“Then that’ll have to do,” Marc said.
It was after eleven before the party of six and their anxious driver got dressed, packed, and otherwise prepared to leave the Malvern Inn. But the day remained cold and sunny, and they made reasonable progress. In fact, a determined push might well have seen them reach Prescott by early evening, but Captain Brookner, who seemed more pleased with the death-threat than frightened by it, insisted that they go no farther than Morrisburg, which could be reached at a leisurely pace by midafternoon. Thus, Marc would have the better part of this day and perhaps tomorrow morning to rest and regain his strength. He did not object.