A Wicked Way to Burn (19 page)

“As most gentlemen do.”

“I’m sure you’ve followed many beasts in your time, and dispatched them. Although it’s always seemed to me there’s generally so little harm in those poor old foxes, it’s a puzzle why you’d want to dress up in a red coat and run after them, when you could be doing far more helpful things about the countryside.”

“I still don’t understand,” interjected Charlotte, hoping to at least delay the squall that blackened the Captain’s brow, “why Middleton came here to stage his disappearance in the first place. I imagine it’s likely he thought we were ‘bumpkins,’ as the Dutch say. Or possibly, small potatoes,” she added, smiling. “I know the world thinks life is slow and backward here, which is a thing that can sometimes put our people’s noses out of joint. But why Bracebridge, in particular?”

Montagu approved of the lady’s modesty and tact, as much as he felt her neighbor’s attitude rub against his nature and breeding. For Mrs. Willet, at least, he found it necessary to add a warning.

“It’s probable that Duncan Middleton came to Bracebridge because he has an accomplice here. He hasn’t taken his own horse away, nor have I heard of him buying another. And it’s a long walk from here to Boston, especially for a man crippled with gout. So, someone must have obtained one for him. As I’ve said, I’ll go after him tomorrow, and I’ll send word when we have him in custody. But until we’ve had a chance to question the man thoroughly, it might be wise to keep watch for any other unusual activities here. Middleton plays a dangerous game, and so might anyone he’s chosen to help him.”

“You think, then,” Longfellow said gravely, his barbs forgotten, “that someone among us might be planning to do more harm.”

“I really can’t say,” Montagu admitted. “But I think it would be prudent to assume that could be the case.

CONVERSATION WAS ABRUPTLY
arrested by the arrival of the pigeon pastry. This time, the new dish was brought in by Mary Frye.

The girl’s tense features reminded Mrs. Willett of other matters at hand. As Richard Longfellow cut open the steaming, egg-glazed crust, and Mary gathered the previous course onto her tray, Charlotte decided it was high time to clear the name of Gabriel Fortier.

“Captain Montagu,” she began with a look of hope, “I believe we can assume the coin Peter Lynch found this morning is likely to have come from Jack Pennywort, who picked it up on the road—”

“I’ll enjoy roasting Pennywort later this evening for lying to me, after I’ve had him plucked,” Montagu assured her.

“Yes, well, then don’t you think you might tell the village that you’ve laid to rest any reason for suspecting Mr. Fortier of committing a crime? I believe he has friends who would be relieved to hear he’s no longer being sought.”

A grateful look from the serving girl was quick in coming.

“Everyone certainly seems upset when they talk about him,” Diana agreed. “In fact, I wonder if it might not
still
be a good idea to find him, and watch him for his own good.”

“Why, exactly, do you say that, Miss Longfellow?” Montagu asked gently, perhaps hoping to mend a fence or two.

“From what I hear, it’s more than stealing or murder that they accuse the Frenchman of now. He’s being talked about as some sort of hellish magician.”

“Where have you heard this?” her brother asked.

“From Cicero, of course. For instance, they say it’s because of Fortier that one of the local men injured his arm at the cider press this morning. It seems they were all standing around as usual, and one man’s eyes suddenly grew as big as saucers, like the dog in the children’s tale. Then he began to speak in tongues to the owner’s cat, which of course instantly became a witch’s familiar in the opinion of everyone there. After that, he knocked down several of the men like ninepins, before he fell against the gears and did himself harm.”

“I’ve heard something else quite recently, about a boy who may have disappeared …” Charlotte added quietly, as Diana continued to laugh at her own story, and Mary left by the passage door.

“They get together and drink themselves silly,” Longfellow muttered through his napkin, as he worked a stray piece of shot out of a mouthful of bird. “Then they blame anything but themselves when the inevitable happens. One would hardly think they needed magic for that.”

“What’s this about a missing boy?” Montagu asked Charlotte.

“Two men were discussing it by the gate outside … they greeted me as I came in. I didn’t think very much about it, knowing how some young men have a way of getting lost, from time to time. Now, I wonder … They asked me if I’d seen him, thinking, I suppose, that he might be with Lem Wainwright, who lives with me. Oh—the missing boy’s name is Sam Dudley.”

“Sam?” Longfellow responded, alerted as much by her tone as her words. “Where was he last seen, and when?”

“They said he went out to hunt some time before dawn. No one remembers where he planned to go, but as
of four o’clock, he hadn’t returned. His family, or at least his mother, is quite worried.”

They followed Montagu’s gaze as he stared toward the steamy window. The faintly illuminated branches beyond showed that the wind was still very active, while the darkness had fallen completely. As they watched, beads of rain appeared on the glass, then flew against it as if thrown in handfuls, before racing down in gathering streams. Behind them, the fire beneath the wide chimney hissed a warning.

“It’s hardly an afternoon to stay outside, is it?” Diana ventured, a little uncertain.

“How old is this boy?” Montagu asked abruptly.

“Fifteen, or sixteen,” Charlotte answered.

While his sister returned to her portion of the pigeon pie, Longfellow leaned back with a blank look. “He’s probably found someone to visit—possibly a young lady,” he suggested at last.

“And the Frenchman’s still missing, too,” Montagu mused, pushing a piece of carrot across his plate. “If he weren’t, I’d have his hide or the truth,” he added, plainly worried about the possibilities before him.

Quite suddenly, a gust of wind blew every flame on the table sideways.

Then, as if by some form of magic, a silent form appeared in the dark mouth of the kitchen passage.

“THE FRENCHMAN WAS
missing,
Capitaine.
Now, he is here.”

The new voice that broke the silence caused heads to swirl, and in an instant, all eyes took in the man who stood before them.

On closer inspection, there were two figures standing there, one behind the other; Gabriel Fortier stood to the front, while over the Frenchman’s shoulder, Mary
Frye’s pale face could just be seen. Clearly, she had known where he was all along, and had brought him in from nearby.

“I hide no more,” Gabriel stated flatly, looking around the room at all of them, but letting his glance rest on Diana longer than on any other. He seemed to see something to address in her eyes, while she returned his look with unconcealed interest. Her evident approval, thought Charlotte, could not have been lost on anyone present.

“I have come, also,” he continued boldly, “to claim my Marie. We are in love. We would run away together, but she is bound here. I respect this … I respect Jonathan Pratt for giving her his protection. It is for this reason only that we wait—not for any fear of a
tyranneau,”
he said bravely, barely refraining from spitting on the floor to drive home his point in the time-honored way.

Edmund Montagu put down his fork and knife, and dabbed his lips with a damask napkin.

“I hope several questions will be answered before either of you leaves this inn tonight,” he said. But Montagu made no attempt to rise; he had seen Gabriel’s hand go toward his belt, half hidden beneath a billowing shirt. It was not unlikely that Fortier, clearly a woodsman, carried a weapon of some sort, concealed but within easy reach.

“I may answer questions for you,
Captaine
, but I am protected by the rights of an Englishman. I know that you are unable to hold me without just cause. And I remind you that you have no legal body behind you, as well.”

“Is everyone here mad?” Montagu asked the company at large. “The rights of an Englishman? Who’ll claim them next—Louis Quinze?”

But Fortier went on in language that was well chosen, if delivered with a distinct accent.

“There are witnesses, you know, who will say that I was not there when the old man in the red cloak disappeared. Jack Pennywort saw no one else, as he tells everyone. On that night, I was by the river, regarding the moon. Mary and I were to meet, but I saw all the people, so I waited. Later I heard them return, calling out my name. Many of them were angry. I saw the smith, Nathan, give Mary his arm, and take her home. I only returned to the Blue Boar at midnight, through a loose window. No one saw me but for Phineas Wise. He warned me to go very early in the morning, and I followed his advice.”

Gabriel Fortier paused and glanced back at Mary, who again seemed about to faint. Silently, he took her hand and helped her to sink gently into a chair that stood against the wall. The girl looked up into the Frenchman’s passionate face. Charlotte saw with interest that Mary was still unused to such tenderness.

“There is really no need for an alibi now, Fortier—” Longfellow began.

“Did you see anyone else by the river?” Montagu interrupted.

“No—no one.”

“What did you do with yourself after that?”

“Most of the time, I watched from the woods. The next night, I slept in Mme. Willett’s
laiterie
—her dairy. This morning, she nearly found me. I hope she was not afraid.”

Charlotte only smiled in reply. That explained, she quickly reasoned, why Orpheus hadn’t growled last night, when she thought she saw a face at the window. The two had probably been introduced by Mary some time before.

“The Devil, you say! And no one told me?” Now it was Longfellow who interrupted, realizing that Charlotte
might have been injured—at the very least, by sharp tongues of the village.

“But why do you stay, away from your family and your work, when you believe Mary is protected at the inn?” Montagu demanded.

“If Peter Lynch were to force Marie to—” Fortier swallowed hard before he summoned enough calm to continue. “If he can get her into his bed, then she will be made to marry him, even against her will. That must not happen. So, I spend my time watching him, or her. What else can I do?”

It was an answer that affected them all, and made Mary lower her eyes to hide tears that filled them. Was it love, wondered Charlotte, or shame? Or perhaps hatred, for Peter Lynch?

“It is difficult to hide, when you are poor—though the fault is not your own,” Gabriel went on practically, possibly to draw their attention away from Mary. “Even when you begin to know a place. Much of the time, one can only live like an animal in the woods. It is very difficult, with men and boys coming to hunt, or looking at the birds in the trees; even little girls arrive, picking up nuts and nearly finding you. It is not a position for anyone to admire. And it is cold at this time of year, and very wet. So I have decided to come inside again.”

“Where will you stay tonight?” asked Jonathan Pratt behind him. Gabriel turned.

“I am a free man. I do not need to answer,” the young man finally replied, reminding Charlotte of the rooster who ruled the roost of her hen house.

“I suppose not,” the innkeeper said. “I was about to offer you a place here. I had an idea that I might need some heavy chores done before winter sets in. Since my help is mostly female, I thought I could make use of another man’s hands.”

While Gabriel considered, Pratt brushed by him
with the tray holding the party’s baked apples and a red custard, which he set down.

“Stay in the stable then, for now,” Jonathan continued. “It’s dry, and reasonably warm. Later, we’ll arrange for something better.”

First Gabriel, and then Mary, seemed ready to speak. But the landlord looked severely at them both.

“If you’re finished, this is a private dining room. I’ll finish serving the guests myself.”

“Two lost, one found,” Charlotte sighed softly as the relieved couple left the room, and the desserts were set upon the table. But the peaceful finale that Jonathan Pratt expected for his guests was not to be. Only moments after they had started on the fruit and the pudding, an explosion of sound came from the direction of the kitchen. It was quickly followed by Elizabeth the cook, who burst into the room with her plump arms flying.

“It’s the miller—full of rum, and come to take our Mary!” she cried.

Then, she turned around and rushed back out through the open doorway, and down the reverberating hall.