Tarleton's Wife (31 page)

At first, as the women settled to the task of filling each square of muslin with a handful of the newly created potpourri, they worked in near silence, taking care to gauge the amount of filling before stitching each bag shut with tiny invisible stitches. But as their hands caught the rhythm of the work, the chatter rose. And soon enough they were once again lured by long-standing camaraderie into free speaking.

“Ah, missus,” said Mary, as she bit off a thread and started to reach for another pocket of muslin, “there’s a bit of petals left in this jar.” She upended the contents into her hand, offering the dried bits of
rosa mundi
to Julia with a look compounded of sympathy and determined optimism. “’Tis coming up to Guy Fawkes. If ye throw the petals into the bonfire, ’twill bring ye good luck.”

Julia’s hand accepted the gift by reflex, a mist obscuring her view of the middle-aged countrywoman’s compassionate features. It was of course Beth who blurted out what none of the others dared say, “And there’s violets, missus, right over there on the shelf and rose leaves and orris root. You could make a sachet o’ it to tuck in the major’s fav’rite jacket. Or under ’is mattress might be best. My mam says it’s a right powerful love potion. Used it on me pa, she did.”

For the second time that morning Beth was brought up short by the horrified looks on her companions’ faces. “Oh, missus, I’m right sorry,” she stammered. “No offense intended, I’m sure. But my mam says you’ve done so much for us, it’s positively
cruel
what’s happened to you.”

“You
are
a child, Beth Collins,” Alice stated with scorn. “There
is
somethin’ better she can do. ’Tis supposed to be done on Midsummer’s Eve but there’re still some fall roses to be found and All Hallow’s should do well enough.”

Meg added a vigorous nod.

“You see, missus,” said Alice, her long black hair gleaming in the glow of the fire warming the large kitchen, “on All Hallow’s Eve—after dark, mind—you must pluck three roses. Bury one under a yew tree, the second in the soil above a new grave and put the third under your pillow. Leave them there for three nights and then burn them.” Alice cocked an eyebrow at Julia before adding the final triumphant touch, “Your lover’s dreams will be haunted until he returns to you.”

“For shame, Alice Potter!” Mary Carter scolded. “’Tis a frightful tale! And you knowing well tonight’s the new year of the ancients, the coming of the dark spirits of winter. The vicar would cast you out if he heard you. Save your mischief for Guy Fawkes, if you please.”

“It’s the Druids you mean, is it not?” Beth Collins asked, embarrassment forgotten in titillating enjoyment of the turn of the conversation.

“Aye,” said Mary, primming her mouth, “and even here in the east the old ways are not altogether forgotten.”

Alice, aware that Julia was listening with open fascination, was not shy about adding to the ancient tales. “’Tis said that on Hallowe’en the spirits of darkness dance with joy that their time, the long dark winter, is coming.” She lowered her voice to a throaty murmur. Hands slowed and stopped. Alice had her co-workers’ undivided attention. “There were only two ways for a poor human to escape the spirits. They must be fed with sweets or a body could put on a disguise—the mask of a spirit—and join their revels as one of them.”

“Such nonsense!” scoffed Emma Tompkins. “’Tis no wonder the church wishes us to ignore it. In four days you can dance around the bonfire as the Guy burns. That should be enough excitement for even the silliest among ye.”

“There’s some,” said Meg ominously, “as does not care to celebrate Guy Fawkes.”

Sudden silence descended on the table. Hands quickly returned to muslin, needles and handfuls of potpourri. The spectacular death of the Catholic daredevil from Yorkshire who nearly succeeded in blowing up Parliament had been celebrated—frequently riotously—for so long that most had forgotten the reason why Guy Fawkes was burned in effigy each November. Rebels, including the husbands, sons and fathers of nearly every woman present, were unlikely to celebrate the death of one of their own.

“I’m sure Mrs. Tompkins meant no offense,” Sophy declared. “I, for one, admit I rather like the old ways. Perhaps it’s part of being an herbalist.” She favored Julia with the thin secret smile of a conspirator. “Perhaps we might light our own small fire tonight, my dear and toss on the petals Mary has given you. It surely won’t do any harm and we can’t deny a bit of luck would be welcome.”

A look passed among Julia, Sophy and Meg. They would do it, indeed they would. That very night.

“You might try the love potion yourself,” Alice Potter advised young Beth. “I’ve seen the looks you’ve give the Irishman, him as is newly come to town.”

Beth Collins turned scarlet. “He’s far too old!” she protested. “And everyone knows he’ll soon be gone. He’s only here to buy wool.”

“Or so he says.” Emma’s voice was tart. “I hear he’s sampled more ale than wool.”

“My Tom thinks he’s a Runner,” Alice Potter declared, enjoying the sensation of the women’s shocked attention. “Too dark and dangerous by half fer a wool buyer. And as for ‘old,’ you silly child, I doubt he’s more’n a year or two past thirty.”

“Runner?” Julia questioned sharply. “Do you truly think so? When did he come?”

“He calls himself Terence O’Rourke, missus.” said Meg, “and he’s been here since a day or two after you left. Black Irish he is. Thin face, wicked black curls, the bluest eyes you ever seen. And sinful long lashes. Not one you’d call ’andsome. Don’t need to be. He swaggers down the street like a cock of the walk and the women fair swoon at his feet. Though ’tis said he’s not done more than wink at a single one.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Alice, looking like the cat who’s just finished the cream, gave every appearance of one who could tell a good deal if only she would.

“Hush!” Emma chided with a glance to young Beth.

“Ladies!” Julia’s raised voice brought all work to a halt. “Is he, or is he not, a Runner?”

“I doubt anyone knows what Mr. O’Rourke is doing here except Mr. O’Rourke,” Sophy pronounced. “It’s possible Lord Ellington has sent for help due to the troubles. It is also possible Mr. O’Rourke is exactly what he says he is, agent for a merchant who wishes to buy wool. I know for a certainty he has spoken with Mr. Tyler and looked at samples of our fleece. I am told he was quite knowledgeable. So other than causing a flutter in the dovecote, I am inclined to believe we may excuse Mr. O’Rourke of any ulterior motive for his visit among us.”

A sigh from Beth, a disgusted sniff from Alice. “We’ll remember those words, Miss Upton,” Alice warned, “when they start carting our men off to the gallows.”

With unspoken agreement seven heads hastily bent over their work. If thoughts of Terence O’Rourke lingered in any but Julia’s mind, there was no sign. But to Julia this unknown, unseen Irishman seemed a nemesis come to bury them all. Any man who caused such a flurry among the women surely was not a simple wool buyer. Julia had not heard of Bow Street employing Irish Runners but it was entirely probable the Earl of Ellington, in his position as magistrate, had sent for help. Surely Jack had heard the rumors about O’Rourke. Dear God, she must see Jack as soon as possible.

“’Tis himself will be the Guy.” The words resounded ominously in one of those inexplicable pools of silence that strike even the most lively conversation.

“What did you say, Alice?” Julia inquired, rudely jolted back to the realm of female chatter.

Alice looked down at the sachet in her hand took a tiny stitch, pricked her finger. Blood fell onto the white muslin, irrevocably ruining her work. A hiss of expletive and the sachet hit the table, bounced and skidded off onto the floor. “I’m that sorry, missus!” she burst out, “but that’s the truth of it. My Tom says the major’ll never let you stay in trade, that we’ll all be starvin’ again. Even though menfolk do stick together, ours all say it’s not right what he done. Bringing that foreign woman home when he’s already got a wife. So…” Alice studied the worn tabletop, then firmed her jaw into a determined line. “So they’ve had me dyeing cloth green and making a uniform. The Guy’s to be the major.”

“Good God!” breathed Sophy.

“But they can’t!” said Julia sharply, surprised by her surge of anger. Never had she considered the possibility his own people might turn on Nicholas, using Guy Fawkes as an excuse to burn their landlord in effigy.

“There’s no talkin’ them out of it, missus,” said Alice. “Goodness knows I’ve tried. Told ’em they wuz cuttin’ their own throats but listen to a woman they’ll not, I can tell you!”

“It’s not just themselves they be thinking of, missus,” Emma added. “They be defending your honor. It’s fond of you they are for all your kindnesses. Because of you our children have full stomachs and pink cheeks. The men know which side their bread ’as the butter.”

“But they mustn’t.” Julia could not resist a rush of pleasure at the compliment but it would not do. It would not do at all. “Emma, Mary, Alice, Beth,” she said earnestly, “you must talk to your husbands, your sons and fathers. Tell them they must not cause trouble. Things are bad enough as they are…” She stopped, dismayed by her admission. Slowly, choosing each word with care, she continued, “We’ve allowed ourselves to think of The Willows as ours to do with as we pleased. We were wrong. Everything here,” she waved a hand to include the herbs, the sachets, the table, the kitchen, the cottage, the land around it, “
everything
belongs to just one person. Nicholas Tarleton. Even if we had been married for years and had a dozen children, I would have no legal right to do what we have been doing here. A word from the major and none of you will see a ha’pence from all the work you have done. It’s the herbs themselves will burn for Guy Fawkes.”

“We’ve plenty more at home,” Beth asserted proudly.

“They’ll have the militia out,” Julia countered, not unkindly. “No favor is too great to be granted to a Peninsular hero, you know. They’ll raid your cottages, confiscate every bit of green down to last whiff of thyme for your soup pot. It might take a day or two to burn it all but never doubt they’ll do it. I’ve seen the major in action. He is nothing if not thorough. Our herbs will be but an ocean of fragrance tickling noses all the way to Nottingham.”

Around the table eyes widened in fear and dismay. “Men can be the very devil,” declared Emma, summing up their thoughts with a shake of her gray head.

“I fear you will have to speak with Nicholas, Julia,” Sophy declared. “He must be warned. If it comes as a surprise, things could well turn out as you have said.”

“I can’t,” Julia groaned. “We are barely speaking on any subject at all. How can I hope to talk rationally about something as important as this?”

“Perhaps ’tis not rational thought that’s needed,” said Alice Potter with a good deal of cheek.

Beth Collins looked blank while Sophy, Meg, Mary Carter, and Mrs. Tompkins tried to look shocked while struggling to hide their smiles. “Indeed, Julia,” Sophy said sternly, “I fear you have little choice.”

Meg thrust back her chair and moved decisively toward the large pantry at one end of the kitchen. When she returned, she set before Julia an entire jar of dried rose petals. “I think you’d best burn the whole thing,” she said.

* * * * *

Blinded by an anger which astonished even himself, Nicholas made a headlong dash back to The Willows, only to be brought up short by a joyous whoop of greeting a scant mile from the Earl of Ellington’s dower house. Avery Dunstan, Viscount Cheyney, galloped toward the man he had followed into war. He wrung Nicholas’ hand, then gripped the major’s shoulder as if to make absolutely certain he was real.

“Jack told me you were alive, Sir, but truly I found it hard to believe,” he blurted out. “I am so
damnably
glad to see you!”

Nicholas returned his junior officer’s greeting with equal warmth but shrugged aside the young man’s hero worship. “I have a great many people to thank for my deliverance, Cheyney. Julia, Dan Runyon, the monks who cared for me…Pickering for bringing me off the field.”

“He’s here, Sir,” Avery interrupted. “Pickering. Hurt his arm bringing me in, then came back to England to help me home.” Lord Cheyney, uncomfortable with admitting to any infirmity, shrugged and added, “I do well on horseback—was on my way to visit The Willows, in fact—but I’m not so fit on my feet. Home for two or three months, I fear.”

“I’m living proof that you’ll recover, Lieutenant,” Nicholas said lightly, “or did I hear you’re a captain now?”

“Yes, Sir, Major, Sir!” Jack’s young brother said with an eager grin. “Will you come back to the Park with me, Sir? It’s closer than The Willows and I know the parents would wish to welcome you home as well.”

Many hours, a sumptuous supper and a two bottles of brandy later, Nicholas started the four-mile journey home from Ellington Park to The Willows. In the flurry of his homecoming and the weight of the problems confronting him, he had lost all track of dates and time. He was drifting along immersed in a vague haze of brandy and random thoughts when he became aware that there really should not be two harvest moons glowing orange in the black October night. After a few moments of owlish regard, Nicholas decided the moon on his left, atop a hill more than half a mile from the road, was actually a large fire, its flames leaping and growing even as he watched. The clash of reality into his dreamworld startled his hands into sudden movement. His horse backed and reared, snorting in surprise.