Naturally, George paid no heed to his suggestion that she indulge in less arduous tasks. And since she wasn’t yet aware of his impending heroic gesture, she told him in no uncertain terms to stubble it.
‘What kind of ‘erbs you reckon on plantin’ then?’ she asked when they’d been working in silence for nearly an hour. Anthony leant on his shovel and frowned.
‘I have no idea,’ he grinned finally. ‘Have you any experience with the kind of herbs used in cooking?’ George gave a vulgar snort and followed it with a shrug.
‘I got a tincture from old Bridy to put the Grimms to sleep when I legged it. Lookin’ back I should ‘ave used a bit more, then I’d ‘ave put the bastards to bed permanently.’ She shook her head. ‘No idea wot it were called though.’
‘I think Grace has an excellent book on herbs,’ Anthony went on, abruptly lost in a daydream of Georgiana lovingly tending their herb garden. ‘Would you like to borrow it? I’m certain she’d be more than happy to let you read it.’
George gave him an irritated look that also held more than a trace of embarrassment. ‘An jus’ when d’you think I’ve ever ‘ad time to learn to read?’
Anthony stared at her, his fantasy abruptly shattered. Of course she couldn’t bloody well read. What an imbecile he was. He watched her face redden with mortification as she bent down and began tugging viciously at a weed nearly as big as she was.
‘I could teach you if you want?’ he said quietly at length. She looked up, and he drew in a breath at the look of sheer joy on her face.
‘You’d do that?’ she breathed.
‘I’d be honoured,’ he smiled. ‘We’ll start after supper this evening.’
∞∞∞
To say Agnes had been incensed when she discovered her faithless husband had sneaked off to Exeter without her was putting it mildly. Indeed, had the Reverend returned at any point prior to her afternoon tea, the matron might have been sorely tempted to pay Mary to add a large dose of Epsom Salts to his tankard of ale.
As it was, a conversation with Lizzy over a large slice of chocolate tart helped calmed her ire considerably. So much so, that by the time Agnes was alone again, the Reverend’s odds of surviving the night were almost even. Unfortunately, though she wasn’t yet aware of it, her own likelihood of surviving as long as the next two hours very much rested on that same devious spouse.
On Lizzy’s departure, Agnes elected to take her usual afternoon nap. Making herself comfortable on the chaise, she spent an enjoyable ten minutes imagining her beloved coming to a selection of untimely ends before drifting off into a light doze, from which she was rudely woken not a half an hour later by a large, particularly foul-smelling hand placed over her mouth.
‘Scream an’ I’ll slit yer bleedin’ throat,’ a voice whispered directly in her ear.
Agnes stared up at the coarse features of the man who had accosted her outside the Red Lion. He grinned, directing a blast of putrid air from a mouth full of rotten teeth. ‘I’m goin’ to ask you a few questions, an’ you’re goin’ to answer me all quiet like.’
Agnes glanced towards the door. ‘There ain’t no one there to ‘elp you, Mrs.,’ he added. ‘Jus’ watched ‘em walkin’ that way.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the village. ‘And that fella’ in your stable is away wi’ the fairies.’ He cautiously lifted his hand and gripped her arm.
‘You haven’t killed him, have you?’ Agnes breathed, her voice filled with horror.
Atkins chortled and shook his head. ‘Might ‘ave a bit o’ a bloody ‘eadache when he wakes up though.’
‘How did you find me?’ she asked, the outrage in her voice mostly feigned.
‘Well known, you are,’ he snickered. ‘Only ‘ad to ask where the puff-gutted, sour-faced bitch wi’ the blue bonnet lived and they wos fallin’ over themselves to tell me.’
He leaned close to her face until his ugly pockmarked face was all she could see. ‘Now I’ll be the one askin’ the questions. Answer me true, or I swear I’ll cut you from ear to bloody ear.’
Agnes swallowed, pushing down her fear. She glanced at the door again. There was no way she’d be able to reach it in time, even if she did manage to escape the wretch's grip.
He sat down on the edge of the chaise, one hand holding her arm in a bruising gripand the other pointing the wicked looking knife towards her neck. ‘Where’s George?’ he hissed.
∞∞∞
‘Do you think we’ll arrive in Blackmore before Henry Atkins?’ Percy asked, his voice threaded with fear.
‘Depends if he left the same time as we did,’ the Reverend responded brusquely, ‘and whether he’s in a carriage or on a horse.’
‘Shall we go straight to the vicarage?’ the curate quizzed. ‘It seems likely that Atkins doesn’t actually know who Agnes is.’
The clergyman nodded. ‘That’s my hope, Percy lad. It’ll take the varmint some time to find out who she is and where she lives. Still, I’ll direct Thomas to drop us off at the end of the lane, just in case he’s watching.’
‘But we’re in ourunderclothes,’ Percy muttered, his voice quietly appalled. ‘People will believe the vicarage a den of iniquity.’
