The Gallant (29 page)

“I fear so, yes.”

“But you are not, although you escaped with them?”

Faintly exasperated, Michael shook his head and saw her smile return, in all its trusting innocence.

“I knew you were not,” she asserted.

“How did you know?”

William Stuart Long

“I watched you,” Prudence confessed. “I watched you for a long time, whilst you were hiding beyond the apple orchard. You were afraid of discovery, and it took you a long time before you thought this house was empty and that it would be safe for you to enter. But you brought no weapon with you-not even one of the fence posts, which were lying near you-so I knew that you intended no

harm. And you looked ill and hungry, and your clothes were wet. I decided that I would help you or at least give you a meal. And then when we talked-your voice is the voice of a gentleman, Mr.

Wexford. I knew you would do nothing to harm me.”

Her logical reasoning defeated him. Yet it was

logical, Michael decided ruefully. Whatever she had done when she found him in her kitchen, he would not have laid a hand on her, poor little soul, because of her crippled state. But Will Haines would have no such qualms-it was essential that the girl’s father be warned that Haines and the others might also pay a visit to his farmstead. He had no means of knowing whether or not they were still in the vicinity-it was possible that they had gone long since, for they had clothing and provisions, which they had taken from the Hastings,

and Haines had talked of making for the Huon Valley.

“I had a weapon under my apron,” Prudence told him. She laughed at his discomfiture as she brought a heavy wooden rolling pin from its concealment and laid it on the table. “In case my judgment should be wrong!” She gestured to him to rise. “The washhouse is outside in the yard, Mr. Wexford.

You will find soap and a razor there, and here is your water, in the kettle. Whilst you are shaving, I will see if I can find any garments that will fit you. You are much bigger than my father and brothers, I’m afraid, but we once had a seafaring man working for us who was almost as tall as you are. He is dead, poor man, so he will not mind if I give you the clothing he left here.”

By the time Michael had washed and shaved, she had kept her promise, and he found a little heap of clothing by the door of the washhouse. The trousers were canvas, clearly the property of a onetime seaman, as was the brass-buttoned bluejacket, and both fitted him tolerably well. The shirt, which was of good linen, was too small, but Prudence had thoughtfully provided a wide neckerchief and what looked like a woolen scarf, which had stretched, in numerous washings, to several times its intended length, and which he was able to use as a cummerbund.

Respectably clad, after more years than he cared to count, Michael made his way back to the kitchen, feeling absurdly lighthearted at the prospect of appearing as a free and civilized man-if, perhaps, not yet a gentleman. The sound of voices, coming from inside the house, brought him warily to a halt, but then, hearing Prudence’s soft laughter, he continued on his way. There was a stocky, dark-bearded man in the kitchen, talking to her in clipped, disapproving tones, and as Michael entered, the newcomer turned on him wrathfully.

“My daughter tells me you’re an absconder from Port Arthur Penitentiary,” he accused, without preamble. “Is that true?”

Michael faced him unsmilingly. “Yes, sir, it’s true. My name is Wexford,

Michael Wexford, Mr. Meldrum. Your

daughter, sir, has been kind enough to take pity on me and provide me with the clothes I am wearing.

She-was

“I fell into a grave error when I christened her Prudence,” the farmer said gruffly. “Prudent is the last thing she is … she gives her trust to any stray down-and-out who passes this way! Not that many do, and none of them have been absconding convicts, up to now.”

“I did not betray Miss Meldrum’s trust, sir,” Michael defended.

“Just as well you did not, or I’d have had you horsewhipped and thrown off my land!” Meldrum retorted. He looked Michael up and down with narrowed, searching eyes, and added grudgingly, “Well, poor old Tom Blaney’s clobber seems to fit you well enough, so I’ll not take it off you. But I’ll thank you to be on your way, mister. We don’t want absconders here.”

“I’m grateful for the clothing,” Michael assured him. “And of course, sir, I will not abuse your hospitality. But-was

Amos Meldrum cut him short. Turning to his daughter, he swore softly.

“Damme, Prue, you’re right on one count! He does talk like an educated gentleman, and no mistake!”

“I told you he was, Papa,” Prudence responded, smiling. “And he wanted to warn you, he-was

“Warn me? What about, for the Lord’s sake?”

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“About the men who absconded with me, Mr.

Meldrum,” Michae! put in. Gravely he explained the circumstances of his escape, ending with Haines’s attempt on his life when he had jumped overboard from the

Hastings” deck.

“Her master-Captain Tarr-is dead, sir. We managed to reach the shore, not far from here, but Captain Tarr had been badly injured, and he-he died.

There was nothing I could do for him, alas. But the convicts-Haines and the other two-they’ve murdered an overseer and a soldier already. They are desperate men, Mr. Meldrum, and it’s possible that they may come here.”

Amos Meldrum scowled. “You say they were intending to run the ship-the

Hastings

steamer-ashore in Baker’s Inlet?”

“Yes. That was where Captain Tarr advised them to make for, but I don’t know whether or not they did.

He chose it because it has a sandy foreshore-he was hoping they would not damage the ship too severely.”

“Hmm.” Meldrum was thoughtful. “Baker’s Inlet is a ways from hereabout fifteen miles, as the crow flies, and these fellows aren’t crows. The Huon Valley’s west of here-we’re north of Baker’s Inlet, and Hobart’s to the north. I can’t see them coming this way, especially if they’ve got provisions looted from the steamer.” He paused, again eyeing Michael from beneath frowning black brows.

“Which way do you plan to go, Mr. Wexford?”

Michael hesitated, taken by surprise at the question. Which way

did

he intend to go? he asked himself, realizing that he had made no plans since leaping headlong from the Hastings’

deck. But his aim and object in escaping from Port Arthur had always been clear enough, when he had made his initial plans during the long hours he had spent in solitary confinement. Had it not been the thought of tracking down Commandant Price that had kept him going, sustained his courage and his stoic endurance? And Price was in Victoria, as commandant of Pentridge Gaol and inspector general of the State Prison Service… .

Michael met his interrogator’s frowning gaze and answered quietly, “I’m aiming to get to Victoria, so … I’ll head for Hobart and try to pick up a ship there, if I can.” He smiled, wryly, gesturing to the seaman’s clothes he was wearing.

“These should help, should they not? I could sign on as a seaman.”

“You’d need papers,” Meldrum warned. He relaxed a little, and his frown vanished. “Maybe I could help you there. The fellow those clothes belonged to-old Tom Blaney—was a sailor before he came to work for me. I’ve got his papers somewhere-put “em away, after the old fellow died.

I’ll find them for you, before you leave.” He glanced at Prudence, his smile affectionate, and then went on. “I’m not being uncharitable, Mr. Wexford-I had a spell in the Port Arthur Penitentiary myself a few years back, for something I didn’t do.

I’d have run if I’d been able to, but luckily my pardon came through before I even thought of trying it. But you’ll understand why I can’t afford to risk harboring an absconder. Anyone who’s ever been a convict rates suspicion, and when the search parties start hunting for you and the others, it’s a hundred to one they’ll come here and turn the whole place upside down.”

“I understand, sir,” Michael answered, without rancor. “If you’ll oblige me with Blaney’s papers, I’ll leave you in peace. And with gratitude, particularly in Miss Prudence’s case.”

“Good,” Meldrum acknowledged. He took a heavy, old-fashioned timepiece from his pocket and sighed, as he replaced it. “I must get back to the harvesting. Bide here for the evening meal -I’ll hunt up those papers when we’ve eaten. My wife’ll be along soon-I’ll tell her to find you somewhere to sleep for a couple of hours. You look as if you need a sleep.” He clapped a hand on

Michael’s shoulder. “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am, sir. I-was

“A political prisoner, were you?” Meldrum suggested shrewdly, “A rebel?”

“You could call me that, yes. The judge did. But if I was not a rebel when they tried me, thenwas Michael shrugged, the old, remembered bitterness creeping into his voice. “I am now.

I hold no brief for Her Majesty’s

government, Mr. Meldrum, and I doubt I ever shall!”

“That’s hardly to be wondered at, Mr.

Wexford,” the older man conceded. “But what’s done can’t be undone, can it?” He drew Prudence to him and kissed her gently on the cheek. “All right, my dear lass, I’m not blaming you for what you did. This William Stuart Long

time you were right, so why don’t you pack up a few things Mr. Wexford may need, on his way to Hobart, while he has a little shut-eye, eh?

We’ll not send him away empty-handed, at least, will we?”

At the door, he turned and added, as if it were an afterthought, “We’ll keep our eyes peeled in case your late companions show up. But I don’t reckon they will.”

“How about taking that musket, sir?” Michael gestured to the old flintlock hanging on the wall.

“In case they do?”

Amos Meldrum gave him a wry smile.

“That old thing? You couldn’t hit a haystack at forty paces with it. But it’ll still fire, and there’s powder and buckshot in the dresser drawer. I’ll leave it in your charge. You can fire a warning shot if you see ‘em coming.”

With that he was gone, and Michael, after a momentary hesitation, left the ancient weapon where it was.

As if she had read his thoughts, Prudence said quickly, “Go and rest, Mr. Wexford, as my father advised.

I’ll keep a careful lookout, and I’ll call you if I see anyone coming to the house.”

Her mother, a tiny, apple-cheeked woman with graying hair and a friendly, bustling manner, returned to the house shortly afterward. Before beginning her preparations for the evening meal, she made up a bed for him on a horsehair sofa in the room she called the parlor, and Michael stretched out on it gratefully, only then realizing how tense and exhausted he was. The pleasant, half-forgotten sound of feminine voices-hushed on his account but still just audible-reached him from the kitchen and swiftly lulled him into sleep. His tension drained out of him, and he let himself relax, conscious of a sense of well-being that he had not experienced for years.

The dream he had was hauntingly nostalgic. In it, he was transported back to the home of his childhood and first youth … Castle Kilclare, the rambling old house at the lake’s edge, with its enchanting glimpses of windswept gray water and distant hills-green, as only Irish hills ever were-the trees ablaze with the golden-orange of autumn foliage.

The blood-stirring echo of a hunting horn, sounding the “Gone away!” was suddenly music in his ears, and Michael smiled in his sleep. He saw again the field of the Kilclare hunt

streaming across the parkland at the rear of the castle, hounds in full cry and his gallant old father, top hat crammed down over his white head, galloping after them at full stretch. He was mounted on the big chestnut weight-carrier he always rode-a vicious animal, which the grooms called Satan. And there was Kitty-a girl of barely fifteen, as he remembered her-tearing after the old man on the aging chaser to which she had just been promoted and being rebuked for her thrusting recklessness. Madcap Kitty …

it had not only been the grooms who had called her that-the whole hunt knew her for the fearless little creature she was, and once again Michael was smiling at the memories his dream evoked.

He saw her twin, Patrick, as ever chasing her shadow, devoted as twins seemed to be, and ready to follow her lead, wherever it might take him and however dangerous it proved. Their mother had died when they were born. All that was left to remind him of her was the oil painting of a slender, exquisitely beautiful woman in a red velvet gown, which hung over the great stone fireplace in the entrance hall.

Lady Caitlin Cecilia Fitzgerald she had been, before her marriage to his father … Kitty had been named after her and, indeed, had taken after her, for she, too, by all accounts had been a brilliant horsewoman before her untimely and tragic death.

The sound of the huntsman’s horn faded into silence and the dream faded. But it had been so vivid, the illusion of being back at Kilclare so intense, that Michael pushed away the hand that was gripping and shaking his shoulder, reluctant to return to wakefulness, his mind and his thoughts still in the past. Undeterred, the hand went on shaking him, and a woman’s voice called him by name.

“Mr. Wexford-wake up! Supper’s ready, and we’re all at the table.”

Michael opened his eyes at last,

to recognize Mrs. Meldrum bending over him, a spotless white apron-several sizes too big for her tiny frame-girt about her, and her cheeks pinker than ever from her exertions in the kitchen.

was ‘Tis a fine meal, though I do say it myself,” she told him, smiling. “And I’d not want you to miss it.”

Michael jumped up at once, swiftly apologetic, and her smile

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widened, lighting her faded blue eyes. “You needed your sleep, Mr. Wexford,” she said indulgently, and gestured to his discarded jacket.

“Come in when you’re ready. It’s not that often we entertain a guest.”

The family were seated round the kitchen table when Michael joined them. Two young men, stocky and dark-haired like Amos Meldrum, were introduced as his sons, Oscar and Peter, and a young woman, Martha, who was Oscar’s wife, greeted him shyly. But their shyness evaporated as the excellent meal progressed, and the young men questioned him excitedly concerning his escape.