He shook his head, finished his last piece of toast and called to Flossy. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on any havey cavey goings on, he had his parish rounds to get on with.
By the time he came out of old Mrs. Morton’s cottage, it was past noon. Ninety if she was a day, he’d taken to coming daily to check she hadn’t gone off to her reward during the night. He was just contemplating whether he had time for a swift tankard of ale before the walk back to the vestry, when he spied an elegant coach and four sitting outside the inn. That decided him, and he hurried towards the coach, a sudden sense of foreboding causing an uncomfortable lump in his breadbasket.
There was no driver seated on the box and no crest on the side of the carriage, but everything about it spoke of wealth. Augustus Shackleford didn’t waste much time inspecting the interior, just enough to be sure it was empty. Whoever it belonged to had gone into the inn clearly taking the coach driver with them.
Picking Flossy up, he pushed open the door to the inn and stood for a second to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the candlelit interior.
‘‘Ere’s the Revren now,’ said a loud voice from behind the bar. ‘You can ask ‘im yersen.’ The landlord’s voice was carefully expressionless, but the Reverend had been frequenting the Red Lion for nearly as long as Harry had been its innkeeper and the clergyman knew immediately something was amiss.
The man standing at the bar was dressed like a gentleman, but the one standing next to him – evidently his coach driver - looked as though he’d be more at home in a boxing ring.
‘How can I help you, Sir?’ Augustus Shackleford asked, making his way to the bar and taking care to keep his voice suitably obsequious.
‘I’m looking for a girl,’ the stranger stated abruptly. Reverend Shackleford felt an immediate flood of relief until the man’s next words. ‘Though it’s my belief she might be masquerading as a young man.’
Harry put a tankard of ale on the bar, and the Reverend took it, swallowing a large mouthful in an effort to give himself more time to decide how to answer. Inside, he was putting two and two together. George was a deuced girl. Of course she was.
‘Now why would a young woman do such a thing?’ he queried mildly at length.
The stranger pursed his lips and glanced over to the thug next to him. For a second, Reverend Shackleford thought the man wasn’t going to answer, but after a few seconds, he responded with a clipped, ‘Girl’s a thief. She stole a ring from my wife.’ He paused then added, ‘She was a servant in our house. The ring was a valuable family heirloom, and naturally my wife is distraught.’
‘That’s terrible,’ the Reverend commiserated, ‘when did this happen?’
Evidently beginning to get irritated at the ongoing questioning the response was short. ‘Approximately five weeks ago. Unsurprisingly, the chit ran as soon as she realised the theft had been discovered.’
On the face of it, the story was perfectly feasible. If George had filched some of her mistress’s jewellery, she faced the noose if she was caught, so she certainly wouldn’t have lingered. And it was just over a month since Anthony had found her hobbling down the road towards Blackmore.
But something about the story didn’t ring true.
Firstly, the Reverend would stake his life George was no servant. Nor ever had been. Her mannerisms were all wrong. She’d slipped into the role of a boy far too easily for it not to have been familiar to her, and she was as skinny as a pole. In his experience, servants were not generally starved, and she hadn’t been on the road long enough to lose so much weight. And if she’d worked in a wealthy household – how did she get so deuced filthy in such a short period of time?
He took another sip of his ale while he worked out what to say, but as he lifted the tankard to his lips, he became aware of a low grumbling coming from the region of his armpit.
It was Flossy. And if the Reverend didn’t trust his own instincts, he trusted the little dog’s. She was no stranger to cruelty and recognised a turk when she saw one.
Augustus Shackleford placed his tankard back on the bar and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I’m sad your wife lost something so precious to her, and you may rest assured, Sir, that I will pray for its safe return.’ He adopted a pious expression before adding, ‘Naturally, I will also pray for the misguided individual who has strayed so far from the path of righteousness.’
‘So you haven’t seen anyone answering my description?’ the stranger questioned through gritted teeth.
‘My dear Sir, you haven’t actually given me a description of the person in question, but if anyone here happens to see a young woman disguised as a man, is there an address to which we could send a missive?’
The man eyed the Reverend narrowly, unsure if the clergyman was pitching the gammon. ‘She – or he as we suspect – is small built with dark blonde hair, cut so long.’ He held his hand up to his shoulder. ‘Unfortunately, her looks are altogether unremarkable.’ He gave a small shrug and began to pull on his gloves. ‘It is of no matter. I suspect the chit is long gone.’ He glanced over at his coach driver who obligingly elbowed those shamelessly eavesdropping out of the way. Then he strode to the door of the inn without looking back.
∞∞∞
George hadn’t seen Anthony since her exposure in the bath tub the evening before. He hadn’t returned for dinner, and in the end, she’d eaten in anxious silence, every mouthful threatening to make an abrupt reappearance. In the end, she’d given the bowl to Nelson who clearly didn’t care whether she was male or female.
Mrs. Parsons had been and gone, leaving that night’s supper and taking the final items of soiled clothing. When she asked about Anthony’s whereabouts, George had shrugged and abruptly informed the housekeeper that her employer had not seen fit to share the information.
Once in bed, she hadn’t slept at all, tossing and turning and agonising whether she should take her few belongings and leave. Groping under her mattress, she drew out her remaining coins. She could get to Plymouth easily – surely someone in the village would tell her where the nearest stagecoach left from?
The problem was, she didn’t want to leave. Not now, not ever.
But nothing would ever be the same. He would never again treat her with the casual friendship that had characterised their relationship thus far. She thought back over the few weeks she’d spent with Anthony Shackleford and finally acknowledged they’d been the best weeks of her entire life. She fought back a sob, tucking the coins back under the mattress. There would be no hiding them in her bodice – if she managed to find one. If he allowed her to stay, it would not be as a boy. And what the devil would Mrs. Parsons say when she found out?
She’d been such a bloody idiot. How long did she really think she’d be able to fool him? Fool anyone? And then what would happen to her? She’d be lucky if she ended up in a nanny house. The alternative - plying her trade on the streets would be infinitely worse.
She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Drawing up her knees, she curled into a ball and wept, until at length, emotionally and physically exhausted, she finally closed her eyes and slept.
