For a panicked moment, it occurred to Catherine that Martha could be dead.
She put a hand to her rib cage, trying to steady herself. She needed to keep herself calm. Martha wasn’t necessarily dead. She just wasn’t at home. A normal occurrence, even for an old woman.
She needed to see if anyone else knew where Martha had gone.
Catherine walked farther into the little cluster of cottages, but she didn’t see a soul. The whole place seemed strangely abandoned.
Catherine walked over to the one cottage where she remembered Martha’s younger brother had lived. She looked in the little window and saw no one. Eerie, she thought. It was the middle of the day, and women should have been at work, spinning and weaving and baking. Even if they were attending a country fair or working at the squire’s estate, there would be at least a few people here who stayed behind.
Then, she reached a cottage where smoke puffed from the chimney. Approaching the door, she knocked forcefully and heard movement from the inside.
Thank God,she thought.
The door swung open.
A short man with a very ragged appearance stood before her. He was missing several teeth. She could tell because he was grinning at her. Right behind him, she glimpsed the visage of his equally filthy compatriot, whose clothes looked even more tattered.
For a wild moment, they reminded her so much of the duns at Halston Place—one short and solid, one tall and rangy—that she almost thought that the men, intent upon dragging her to debtors’ prison, had followed her to Dorset.
The thought made her take a few steps back.
She looked up at the men again and realized she was being ridiculous. The tall dun at Halston Place had had all his teeth. The squat man in front of her had red hair, whereas the short dun had been bald.
Furthermore, while the duns had not been the pinnacle of respectability, they were a far cry from the men before her.
The tall man took a few steps towards her, into the light outside the cottage, and, suddenly, Catherine realized what she should have concluded from the first: that the men weren’t cottagers.
They clearly hadn’t bathed in weeks—perhaps longer—and not in a wholesome country way, where basic hygiene measures gave the appearance of neatness and good health, even if people didn’t have as many opportunities for full baths. No, their dirtiness was menacing. Worse, certain articles of clothing on their bodies looked out of place, very fine and very new, as if they had been picked at random from a gentleman’s closet. She swallowed.Or a gentleman’s body.
Too late, she noted that the tall one, who had just taken another step in her direction, held a gleaming knife.
“Give me yer purse, miss. Isn’t no one around here ter save yer. All the cottagers runned away. I guess ye didn’t know that.”
He seemed drunk, a little at sea, and his companion was bleary-eyed.
“Gentlemen.” She held up her hands. “I don’t mean any harm.”
“Yer quite a pretty maid,” the tall one said as he stepped towards her. “A bit strange ter look at, but pretty.”
“Er—thank you, for your gallantry. You really should let me go. I am not alone—”
“We’ve ’eard it all before, miss. Aren’t no one waiting round the corner ter save yer.” The man stepped forward again, brandishing his knife. “Give me yer purse and maybe I won’t ask yer for anything else.”
Terror coursed through Catherine. The man tried to grab her. She pulled away just in time and he failed to get a grip on her wrist. She escaped the shadow of the cottage and drew both men into the main lane that wended its way between the little dwellings.
She thought of calling for John, but, just as she was about to scream, she saw him come up the road from behind the men.
“Oy! Gentlemen. Away from the lady.”
They turned away from her and towards John’s voice.
“A nob,” the short one said, his drunkenness even more apparent in the sunlight.
“A rich nob,” said the taller man.
“All nobs is rich,” the short one replied, his tone resentful.
But his friend ignored him. Instead, he stepped towards John with his knife.
