Five minutes later, his howl of rage set knees to knocking all over the great house.
***
The postilions had become minor celebrities and the patrons of the Red Pheasant Inn had been quite willing to gratify their thirst in exchange for ever more lurid descriptions of the highwaymen. By the time Rossiter found them in the stables they were so inebriated that they were quite unable to ride. He was unable to find a light carriage, so hired a hack to carry him home, and packing only his basic necessities in the saddlebags, desired the proprietor to hold the rest of his belongings at the inn until he sent a servant for them the following day.
It was a long and unpleasant journey. Like Roger Coachman, he knew the road well, and now that the rain had stopped, a quarter moon occasionally crept from behind shredding clouds to light his way. The air was still damp, however, and a strong wind had come up, chilling him to the bone and whipping occasional sprays of water from the drenched trees. He scarcely noticed his discomfort. Mile after mile, August Falcon’s harsh words haunted him: “Your sire was proved a thief and embezzler…” It was a mistake, of course. Or a deliberate lie.
His thoughts drifted back to Eton. Falcon had been a year ahead of him and although his birth brought him mockery and derision, his fists had won him a measure of respect. Gideon, hiding his own loneliness behind an air of cool self-possession, had rather admired the older boy and would have liked to make a friend of him. His one attempt along those lines had been made when Falcon was attacked and outnumbered, and his intervention had won him only blazing resentment, and a snarled, “In future, keep your pure English nose out of my affairs!” Rossiter had taken Falcon at his word and had avoided him like the plague, but although they were not, nor ever could be friends, he had never heard of Falcon being less than square and above-board in his dealings, and could not credit that the man was a liar.
Impatient to be at home and get to the bottom of it all, Rossiter knew better than to risk a gallop on bad roads made worse by heavy rains. There were few travellers abroad on such a dismal night. An occasional solitary horseman or a labouring carriage would loom up and quickly disappear again. Rossiter swung his mount around a laden wain bound for London’s early market, oilcloth tied over the cargo, and a cheery hail issuing from what appeared to be a pile of sacking but was presumably the driver. Half an hour later, a stagecoach rushed past at reckless speed with a great blaring of the horn and a thunder of hooves. The heavy wheels sent up another spray of mud, but Rossiter was glad to see the coach, since it bore testimony to the fact that the roads were passable, at least as far as Canterbury.
He turned east three miles before reaching that city, and at once conditions worsened. The moonlight filtered between wind-whipped glistening black branches to show a lane that was a river of mud and ruts. Rossiter guided the horse along the hedgerows, but there were places where the ditch was steep and treacherous and he had to go cautiously. He had dreamed so often of returning to his home, but had pictured doing so on a bright, sunny morning, through grounds brilliant with flowers, the great house waiting in serene dignity to welcome him, and the mill lifting its ancient roof against the trees. This was a far cry from such a pleasant homecoming. There was something ominous about the stormy night. The wind seemed to howl a warning; the sudden gusts might almost have been striving to push him back the way he had come. Foolish fancies, he thought. Born of weariness and a nagging worry.
His unease intensified when he reached the lodge gates. There was no sign of life, nor did anyone respond to his hail. The rain began to pound down again. He dismounted, muttering curses, tethered the hack to a shrub and struggled with the heavy gate. Riding on again, it occurred to him that either everyone at the Point must have gone early to bed, or the trees had become very dense, for he should by now have been able to see some light from the windows of the main house.
He guided the horse along the drivepath, his eyes straining up the hill for some sign of life. By the time he reached the moat he had accepted the fact that his family must be in Town. Some servants had certainly been left, but they had evidently retired. He crossed the bridge and rode around to the stableyard. Not a glimmer showed from the long building that housed the outside staff. His shout echoed eerily but brought no response. He threw one leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle, then staggered. Lord, but he was so tired he ached with it. Angry and frustrated, he shouted again. “Dammit! Whereiseverybody?”
He had as well have questioned the puddle his boot splashed into, and not wasting more time he led the hack into the barn and his cold fingers groped for tinder box and flint. The feeble flame revealed a row of stalls with only one occupant, a sway-backed old grey that blinked at him sleepily. The animal must belong to a servant, but where the deuce were all the other horses? His mind was too numbed to grapple with the problem now. He must get to his bed before he fell asleep on his feet. First, however, the hack must be tended. Wearily, he lighted a lantern. Ten minutes later, having rubbed down the animal and provided it with oats and water, he took up the saddlebags, tossed them over his shoulder, and stumbled across the yard, making his way through the kitchen garden and up the back steps.
Unprecedentedly, the door was locked.
It was the last straw. With a cry of wrath he drove his boot at the handle. The wood splintered and a second kick sent the door slamming open.
The house was black as pitch and utterly silent. He groped his way across the kitchen and along the service corridor. In the Great Hall he tugged on the bell pull to no avail, then shouted again, his “Is anyone at home?” causing the prisms on the chandeliers to chime gently, but winning no other response. Disappointed, and reeling with exhaustion, he dragged himself up the stairs. His own bed would not be made up, of course, but there might be blankets in Sir Mark’s bedchamber. Coming to the door, he opened it and made his way to the great tester bed. His outstretched hand encountered an eiderdown. With a groan of relief he let the saddlebags slide to the floor, and stopping only to shed his cloak and boots and unbuckle his swordbelt, he crawled between the blankets.
He had scarcely closed his eyes than the sounds awoke him. Violent sounds. Thumps, crashes, voices raised in wrath and anguish. For a few seconds he thought himself back with his regiment, then he remembered and, groaning a curse, pulled the covers over his head. The sounds grew louder and the floor vibrated. A full-throated howl propelled him from the bed. Seething with rage, he took a step, then paused, taken aback to see sunlight streaming through the windows of his father’s vast bedchamber. He must have slept the night away. His swift scan of the room revealed only the furnishings—no trace of clothing or personal effects. They were away, all right. Nothing in that to cause alarm. If they were not in Town at Rossiter Court, Papa could have gone into the shires, or taken Gwen to Bath for the waters. Still, ’twas odd that not one servant had come to wait on him, for the grooms must surely have seen his hack in the stable and realized someone of the family was home. Besides, even when Sir Mark departed for a lengthy journey, most of the staff remained at Promontory Point, and never had this room been so stripped of all personal belongings…
Another crash recalled him to his purpose. Not waiting to pull on his boots, he wrenched the door open and strode along the corridor.
From the head of the stairs he had a full view of the altercation. “What thedevil? Have done!” he shouted.
The larger of the combatants hurtled across the Great Hall, slammed against a medieval oak chair, and slithered to the floor. The survivor ran one hand through his considerably dishevelled hair and looked up.
“As you… wish, dear boy,” panted Lieutenant James Morris. “Sorry to throw your… your people about, but the silly fella wouldn’t listen to a… word I said.”
Rossiter ran down the stairs and clasped his hand strongly. “Jamie! Welcome! Did you just arrive?”
“Got here last night, my pippin. Couldn’t raise a soul at the front, but found a back door open. Wouldn’t have intruded y’know, but you have all my gear, and my spare lettuce is in my razor case.”
“Gad! I should have thought of that! My apologies, but I couldn’t hire a coach, so left most of our things at the Red Pheasant, meaning to—”
“What?D’you say I’ve to ride all the way back to that blasted inn again? Well, if that ain’t the shabbiest thing I ever heard! Pox on you, Ross!”
“I’ll send one of my father’s servants down there and have your things delivered, I promise you. Meanwhile, you can use my razor. How the deuce did you find your way here?”
“With considerable difficulty! Luckily I was given quite understandable directions by a most obliging midwife making a late call. Thought I might not find you here, to say truth. Had I not seenmylady for six years, I’d likely head first in her direction.” The smile faded from Rossiter’s eyes, noting which Morris added warily, “Ah! You did, I see. No—er, difficulties, I trust?”
“None I cannot come to the root of speedily enough. Why have you such a glum face? Are you thinking my lady has forgot me? Well, do not. She’s not the type to vow and forget.”
“Still… six years…,” said Morris, watching him from the corner of his eye. “A frightful lapse, old lad. Not that I wish to blow out your candles, but—anything might have happened, y’know.”
“What a dismals dispenser! Come now, cheer up. You’re in need of sustenance is what it is. Where did you sleep?”
“Took the liberty of racking up in your withdrawing room. Too tired to climb the stairs.” Taking in his host’s rumpled appearance and shoeless feet, Morris asked, “Your man—ah, away, old lad?”
“Don’t have one at present, but there must be someone keeping an eye on the place. With luck there’ll be food in the—”
“Ho, no you don’t!” interrupted a grim and husky voice. The lieutenant’s antagonist had risen and was aiming a large horse pistol at them. “The imperdence of it,” he said, his scratch wig tilted over one eyebrow, but his square features flushed and belligerent. “A fine state of affairs we’ve come to in this ’ere country when military coves break into the ’ouses of the gentry, make theirselves at ’ome, and then—wiv not so much as a twinge of conscience fer their sins—plan to raid the larder! Shocking is what I calls it! Proper shocking! I’m taking you two soldier boys in charge.”
