Tarleton's Wife (8 page)

In the middle of the narrow walkway Julia halted, taking each of her stalwart companions by the hand. “Thank you,” she choked, eyes blurring. “It’s a pact then. We’ll face the wilds of Lincolnshire together.”

Embarrassed, Daniel ducked his head, mumbling, “They do say it be the most quiet corner of England, missus. Doubt you’ll be needing us at all.”

* * * * *

The Bell and Candle was a coaching inn of some respectability on The Great North Road. The sign over the broad entrance to its cobbled courtyard creaked in the February wind as the weary trio sloshed through the remains of a wet snowfall and entered the inn. Earlier that day they had left the rest of their meager luggage in care of the ostler, though the canvas bag that held Julia’s tattered brown gown, heavy with coins, and the major’s money pouch, rode in a pack on Daniel’s back. The inn’s main door gave directly onto a large common room, redolent with ale, roast meat, wood smoke and unwashed bodies.

Since the ostler had assured them there were plenty of rooms available, the weary travelers were disconcerted to find the common room, which was also the taproom, packed to capacity, every chair, bench and settle filled with men attacking great platters of mutton and tankards of local brew. The travelers paused just inside the doorway, achingly aware of how they must appear. Two women wrapped in the tattered remnants of the cloaks they had worn in Spain, Daniel equally shabby in his torn and faded uniform.

A burly red-faced man erupted from the crowd and bore down on them in a manner not dissimilar to the charge of a bull Julia had once seen at a
corrida
in Spain. “Out!” he bellowed. “This is a respectable house. We don’t serve beggars. Out, out!”

“A fine way to speak to a lady!” Meg O’Callaghan roared right back.

As Daniel stepped forward ready to do battle, Julia gripped his arm, the colonel’s daughter suddenly appearing from behind the bone weary, ill-dressed façade of the young woman the landlord was so ready to shun. “And what kind of Englishman are you, pray tell?” she inquired, her voice falling clearly on a room resounding with sudden silence. “Boney’s building an invasion fleet a scant few miles across the channel and you scorn those who suffered for you at Corunna?” Her contemptuous gaze swept from skewering the gaping landlord to encompass the entire room. “Here you all sat gorging on mutton and swilling ale while Britain’s army died for you. We—Daniel, Meg and I—we were with the men who slowed the tap of the hammers building Boney’s boats.”

Julia turned her blazing eyes back to the landlord. “You dare…you dare tell two women who watched their husbands die at Corunna that you have no room at the inn! I am Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton of The Willows. We’ve come straight from Spain. We are not beggars and we will have a room.”

“The major’s dead?” A strong masculine voice cut across the pregnant silence. “Nick Tarleton’s dead, you say?”

Julia’s burst of emotion had drained what little strength she had left. She clutched Daniel’s arm as she regarded the stranger who had entered from an inner hallway. “We are not sure,” she murmured. “He was sorely wounded. It’s possible he still lives.”

“Billings!” the stranger snapped at the landlord, “see to rooms for the lady at once. And give her my private parlor. Snap to it, man.”

In a matter of moments a solid oak door had shut out the rising buzz of comment and speculation in the common room and the refugees were warming themselves before a crackling fire. The remarkably deflated and obsequious landlord apologized profusely, promising a hearty meal forthwith. As Billings scurried off to make good on his assertions, the stranger seated the women on a small sofa before the fire, waving aside all attempts to thank him. After a swift examination of Julia’s strained face, he poured a tot of brandy and handed it to her.

Julia nodded her thanks, raising her clear blue eyes in appeal. “Would you mind, Sir? I know my companions are in need of brandy as well.”

“You’ll be pleased to forgive our ways, Sir,” Daniel Runyon interjected swiftly, fully conscious of the incongruity of a batman and a lady’s maid being served by a gentleman, “but we’ve been through some rare bad times, the three of us. It will take us a wee bit to remember how to go on among the English.” Encouraged by a glint of wry amusement in the stranger’s eyes, Daniel ventured to add, “I promised the major I’d look after his lady, so I trust you’ll not take offense if I ask your name.”

Their rescuer had already handed Meg O’Callaghan a tot of brandy and now held out a glass to Daniel, his glint of humor broadening into a smile. “It is the major who is well served,” he approved. “Jack Harding at your service. Estate agent to the Earl of Ellington.”

Estate agent. Not bloody likely, thought Daniel. Estate agents were little better than upper class servants. Second sons of second sons of the landed gentry. Or poor relations, bastard sons. Aye, that was likely the case. A man who gave orders like the most arrogant nobleman or strode across a room as if he owned it was no man’s servant. The earl’s by-blow, more like. Which might also account for the iron behind his aristocratic arrogance. Jack Harding was six feet of hardened muscle, topped by windswept locks of chestnut hair that curled about his ears. He was dressed well enough in country clothes but a hint of danger lurked about him. Energy, barely leashed, which might explode at any moment. An able friend, Daniel judged but a poor man to cross.

Julia introduced herself and her companions, adding, “You knew the major, Mr. Harding?”

“In years past, when Nicholas visited his aunt, we shared some good times.” Jack Harding paused, visions of sun-dappled trout streams, fleeing rabbits and startled partridges, moments of undeniable mischief chased through his head. As he and Nick grew older, they had shared other adventures. Not reminiscences meant for a grieving widow. “Later,” Jack said, “we shared a pint or two…and talked.” In an oddly boyish betrayal of emotion Jack Harding thrust a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “My condolences, Mrs. Tarleton. He was a good man, I liked him.”

“Daniel?” Julia turned away, gazing fixedly into the fire, while Daniel Runyon took Jack Harding to a far corner of the room and gave him a brief summary of their last days in Spain, finishing just as the door opened to admit a procession of Billings, his good wife and two maids carrying an array of heavy trays.

Ignoring the bustle around the table, Harding returned to Julia, kneeling down so he might look up into her face which was as pale as a marble statue. His casual admiration for her stoic calm had taken on a new awareness. “My apologies for intruding on your grief, Mrs. Tarleton. Since we are to be neighbors, I look forward to becoming better acquainted. And now, you must be wishing me to the devil. I trust you will enjoy your supper.”

As he started to rise, Julia reached out impulsively and touched his hand. “Please stay, Mr. Harding. We are deeply indebted to you. I was at a standstill, my small rebellion quite at an end. If you had not interceded, I think I would have fallen where I stood.”

A warm glow lit the powerful contours of their rescuer’s strikingly handsome face. “Never, Mrs. Tarleton. I’ll not believe it. You’re made of sterner stuff.”

Julia acknowledged his compliment with a gracious smile. “Indeed, we cannot put you out of your parlor. You will dine with us, I insist.”

“I doubt Mr. Harding’s accustomed to dining with a batman and a lady’s maid, missus,” Daniel cautioned.

“That cock won’t fight, Runyon,” Jack retorted. “I thought we’d settled that matter. Not to mention the food grows cold while we quibble. Cut line, man…or do you think me not grand enough to dine with your lady?”

This last was purred to the accompaniment of glittering green eyes and a catlike stillness which sent a shiver through Daniel’s Irish soul. “Nay, lad, I’m thinkin’ I’d much rather have you as a friend than as an enemy. And the good Lord knows the missus will skin me if I stand here jabbering when she’s already invited you to join us.” Daniel stepped back and allowed the enigmatic Mr. Harding to offer Julia his escort to the laden table. Daniel, in turn, with his first smile in a good many hours, offered his hand to Meg O’Callaghan, seating her at the table with all the formality Jack Harding showed to Julia Tarleton.

Within minutes the travelers recognized that they had tapped into a mine of information on their new world. Possibly Jack Harding felt the pull of old friendship, perhaps the poignant appeal of a lady newly widowed, or simply admiration for their heroic survival but he talked to them with a rare freedom. When speaking of matters in the area from Grantley to Nottingham, he veiled his anger, scorn and contempt with little more than a thin coating of humor. From the squire to the vicar to the social lionesses of neighborhood, his thumbnail sketches spared no one’s sensibilities.

As Harding moved on to more serious matters, the traveler’s faces grew longer, worry once again rearing its ugly head. Apparently, their dreams of peace, quiet and safety had gone a bit wide of the mark. Though mobs of angry farm workers and factory laborers were a far cry from Napoleon’s Grande Armée, the refugees began to fear they had moved from one war zone to another.

“You speak of enclosures, Mr. Harding,” Julia said. “I’ve lived out of the country most of my life and I confess it’s a word I’ve heard but never understood.”

“That’s the trouble, Mrs. Tarleton,” Jack Harding returned. “There’s little thought given to the problem by any but the landowner who thinks only of more money and the farm worker who finds himself starving.” Jack’s fork clattered onto his plate. He gripped the edge of the table. “My apologies, ma’am! That was uncalled for. ’Tis true enough but no criticism of yourself was intended. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll try to explain.”

Julia appreciated his gesture. It was plain to see apologies did not come easily to Jack Harding. “Please continue, Mr. Harding. I wish to understand what is happening here.” She couldn’t help but sympathize with someone who felt so passionately about what he saw as injustice, though she reserved judgment about the accuracy of his opinions.

“In the old days,” Jack began, “most land was held in common, open to use by all. Human nature being what it is, enclosures began in medieval times as the strongest knights built keeps and castles and claimed the land around them. Through the years, in similar fashion, nobles continued to enlarge their acres, sometimes by buying or trading land, not infrequently, by simply taking what they wanted.
Force majeure
.”

A glance around the table at three pairs of eyes fixed on his face satisfied Jack that he was not boring his audience. “There’s no doubt that farming large fields is more efficient,” he continued. “The landlord gets better crops and more money and until recently there was still land left for farm workers—a plot of their own to grow food for the family, a place to graze a cow. But in the past ten years or so, nearly every last scrap of land has been enclosed. There’s no common ground left beyond the village green and heaven forfend if any man should try to graze a cow on that, as was the practice in the past.”

“But are the workers not paid wages?” Julia countered.

“Wages!” Jack exploded. “With the new machines, many of the men have no work at all. And even when there was work, they needed the income their wives and children made on cottage industries at home. And those too are gone now. Lost to the factories in Nottingham and the Midlands. It would seem the farm workers’ only hope for survival is to move into the city and slave twelve or fourteen hours a day at a machine. Well, they won’t do it, m’am. They’re Lincolnshire farmers and wish to stay on the land.”

“Your sympathy with the workers does you credit, Mr. Harding,” said Julia carefully, “yet you are in charge of what must be the largest estate in the area. A conflict of interest, is it not?”

Jack traced a lazy circle on the tablecloth with his forefinger, idly flicking a crumb onto the wide boards of the floor. “I have been fortunate,” he replied, raising his eyes to hers. “I have managed to convince Ellington of the necessity of providing for the workers who were displaced by the most recent enclosures. It’s an effort which has not been entirely successful but on our estate no one is starving.”

“Is it as bad as that then?” Daniel asked.

Candlelight flickered over the grim line of Jack Harding’s mouth. “Yes, it’s as bad as that.”

“Ellington,” Julia mused. “Ellington. Would that be Lieutenant Avery Dunstan’s father?”

“And glad I was when Runyon told me the boy survived.”

Julia exchanged a swift glance with Daniel. They both saw the resemblance. It was more than likely they were dining with the earl’s own bastard, his eldest son, if not his heir.

After confirming that the Earl of Ellington was father to Lieutenant Dunstan, Viscount Cheyney, Jack added, “He was always hell-bent for the military, heir or no. When the major came here to look over the estate after his aunt died, there was no holding him. The boy shared a pint with us one night here at the inn, then followed Old Nick off to war as if he were the Pied Piper. The earl was fit for Bedlam but gave in and bought the boy his commission. Couldn’t have his heir in the ranks, you know.”

“Fond of the boy, are you?” Daniel asked.

“Tolerably,” Jack admitted, with a lopsided grin. “If I can get him to turn his head from the drums of war to the cries of his tenants.”

“Ah but they’re not his tenants yet, Mr. Harding,” Julia countered. “Give him leave to grow up a trifle.”

“Sage advice from an oldster like yourself, Mrs. Tarleton?”