Cynthia Bailey Pratt

GENTLEMAN’S FOLLY

Cynthia Bailey Pratt

Chapter One

Relaxing in the deepest, most comfortable armchair in the upstairs salon, Jocelyn sewed at a shirt, a present for her youngest cousin’s thirteenth birthday. Every so often she looked up from her work and sighed happily. Outside the open window the day was bright, clear spring, the first of the season, with neither rain nor bluster. A lively little breeze flirted with the white muslin drapes, bringing with it the smell of growing things. Best of all, the priory was completely quiet. Her aunt and uncle were in the library, working on their presentation for the London Preservation Society. The two boys who still lived at home had taken advantage of the weather to go away.

On the floor below, a door slammed with a startlingly loud report. Jocelyn jumped in surprise, then hurriedly bundled the shirt into her workbasket to hide it from Arnold. A drumbeat of excited footsteps came up the stairs. Jocelyn wondered if it would be mud, or rabbit’s blood, or syrup she would have to remove from the hall carpet this time. Their most recent housekeeper flatly refused to clean up after Arnold any more. Though only the Luckems’ niece, Jocelyn played a daughter’s pan in looking after her two cousins.

Rather than passing the salon door, the footsteps paused. Jocelyn stood up, bracing herself. It opened.

“Granville!” she exclaimed, having expected not him but Arnold. “What has happened?”

Her sixteen-year-old cousin was never seen without the most extreme attention having been rendered to his toilet.

Now he stood before her, a sweating, dust-smeared disaster. His cravat, pride of his life, had evidently been used to wipe a streaming brow, and his coat hung as if half-torn from his back. The boy gulped. “I ... uh ... nothing whatever, cousin.”

“Come now,” she said as she poured him a tumbler of water from the carafe on the table. “Drink this, and tell me what is wrong.”

Gratefully he drank but hesitated before fulfilling her second request. “Do you promise not to tell Father or Mother?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, please. Their speech to the society must be finished before tomorrow, and they’ve lost so much time already this week thanks to that hubble-bubble brother of mine. Curse him! Why couldn’t my parents have stopped breeding with me?”

“Now, Granville,” Jocelyn said mechanically, though to herself she admitted he had a point. “What has Arnold done this time?”

“Why, nothing in the world except commit a hanging offense!” He sank into her armchair.

“Hanging!”

“He was fishing in Lord Netherham’s lower stream. Again! In plain daylight with Handsome Foyle. Constable Regin came along with his big feet, and they never heard him until he clapped hands on Arnold. Foyle avoided capture and found me at Winston’s.”

“Dear heavens! We must tell your parents this. At once!”

“No!” Granville clutched at her arm. “Arnold didn’t give his right name, thank the Lord, and Regin’s new enough that he doesn’t know my dear brother’s face as yet. If we can get Arnold back. Mother and Father will never have to know.”

“How can we do that? I can’t walk into Libermore gaol and ask the constable to release Arnold without bringing the family into it. Regin is not Constable Phillips. Perhaps if Phillips had been firm with him, Arnold would have stopped getting into these ridiculous scrapes years ago.”

“He’s not the only one who has fallen into a bumble broth before now.” Granville looked at his cousin slyly. “Do you remember stealing Mr. Nicholson’s peaches?”

“Oh, no,” she said, her gray eyes widening in alarm. “No, Granville, absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on, Jocelyn. It’s not much of a sacrifice. Any way, we’ve no choice. It’s either you help me or I ask Mr. Quigg. And his rheumatism has been kicking up since you told him to dig the garden. He’d be no good if we have to run. Somehow, I’m sure we’ll have to run. It’s the only thing to do when Arnold gets into trouble.”

Seeing that she still hesitated, he pleaded, “Come on! We can’t let Arnold be hanged.”

“They don’t hang twelve-year-old boys anymore,” Jocelyn said, attempting to sound confident, although she wasn’t entirely certain of her facts.

“Then he’ll be transported. They’ll do that sure as a gun. His age or Father’s status won’t matter in a poaching case. And I’d have to go with him, and bang! go my chances at Oxford. You must do it, Jocelyn. You must!”

“I’m not even sure where any of those clothes are. Or if they’d fit. I was seventeen then. I’ve grown.”

With a glance at her figure Granville said, “You could still pass for a boy.”

“Thank you so much.” She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I won’t do it.”

Granville tightened his grip upon her sleeve. “We’re wasting time! We’ve got to get there before Regin takes Arnold to gaol. Once he’s there, we’d never be able to rescue him.”

The very real agony in Granville’s voice decided her. Although she felt a good fright would do wonders for Arnold, she could not allow him to be entangled in the law’s merciless web without raising a hand to help him. “Oh, very well,” she said, stamping her foot with frustration. “Look in Tom’s room for the clothes. I’ll go change.”

Within half an hour two youths could be seen racing toward the riverside town of Libermore. One ran rather awkwardly, as if unused to the freedom of trousers. And such trousers! The boy looked as if he’d dressed in the dark, with a ragbag for an armoire.

The faded blue coat had been retrieved from her eldest cousin Tom’s wardrobe and still smelled of the stables, though Tom had been away at Oxford for two years. Her inexpressibles were Granville’s patched and thus disdained property.

Her waistcoat, once gloriously embroidered with whitework, now threadbare, had been caged from a former housekeeper’s quilting bag. The grubby shirt belonged to Arnold, as did the shoes. The disreputable hat that Jocelyn anxiously held clamped over her short and curling hair had been found by Arnold last spring on a riverbank.

The gaol in Libermore was in the oldest part of town, near the river. Jocelyn kept her eyes on Granville’s back as he moved confidently through the teeming streets. He seemed to know his way, and Jocelyn was glad not to be alone. She’d never been down there before. It was not a place for a respectable girl. At least she could be certain no one who knew her would see her in her eccentric costume.

Granville paused on the pretext of inspecting a fruiterer’s barrow. “Just ahead,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, like a naughty schoolboy. “Do you see them?”

A strangely assorted pair came toward them. The parish constable was as massive as a castle tower. He scarcely picked up his enormous feet as he lumbered forward. His dark head was the shape of a pistol ball, with about as much expression. The contrast to the youngster beside him could not have been greater. Arnold Luckem was small and thin with a sunny blond head. Despite the rope around both wrists, he bounced along the street as if out for an afternoon’s pleasure. He paused frequently, smiling at people in the street and looking with interest at wares displayed for sale, until, with a jerk at the rope, the constable towed him along once more.

All Jocelyn’s anger at her heedless cousin was transferred to his captor. Obviously, the constable possessed no tact whatsoever. Tying Arnold up like an animal and parading him through the busy streets? A more decent man would have brought the miscreant to Mr. Luckem and likely received a tip for his trouble. In disgust Jocelyn looked away. Her eye fell upon a vegetable marrow on the cart before her. Though exposed for sale, the gourd was far from ripe. Curving her fingers around it, the heaviest pan of the bulb stuck up like a club. She looked down the street at Regin, a troubled furrow between her dark brows.

Granville took his lucky half crown from his pocket. “Crown, you grab Arnold and I trip Regin. Spade, I take my brother.” The coin spun. “Spade. Damn. Two of three.”

Jocelyn reached across and took the coin from him, handing it with a smile to the fruiterer. Granville protested wordlessly.

His cousin said, “It’s not much of a sacrifice.” She took the vegetable marrow. It was hard as stone when she tested it against her palm. “Spade it is. Let’s go.”

Pausing only to collect his change, Granville went after Jocelyn. They waited about forty feet from the town’s lockup. Granville whistled shrilly. Beside Regin, Arnold turned his head as he searched the crowd. Spotting his brother, he merrily waved both hands.

“What’s you lookin’ at?” Constable Regin growled.

Jocelyn stepped forward. Taking a deep breath, she raised the vegetable high. As though she’d practiced for years, she brought the hard gourd down on the parish officer’s pate. At the instant of impact, Granville grabbed his brother, lifted him bodily off the ground, and ran like the devil, Arnold shouting something over his rescuer’s shoulder.

Dearly as she would have liked to, Jocelyn could not follow at once. Regin turned his eyes upon her with a questioning frown. Jocelyn looked at the remaining half-gourd as if uncertain how the thing could have thus grown to her hand. It slipped to the ground as she smiled sheepishly.

Even as the massive parish constable reached out his large hand to arrest her, his eyes rolled up in his head. He rocked backward and fell with a noise like a hundredweight of brick falling onto cobbles.

Guiltily Jocelyn looked around. She met no eyes. It was almost like a conspiracy to ignore what happened to the constable. She wondered how many of these street merchants, living hand to mouth, suffered from Regin’s strict enforcement of parish regulations and fines. Jocelyn walked away. Little by little her pace increased until she ran toward where Granville and Arnold had disappeared. They were nowhere to be seen. And she, looking about her, found that she was lost.

Scooting rapidly out of the path of a hustling drover with a sheep on his shoulder, Jocelyn ran full tilt against a man who suddenly emerged from a shadowed doorway. Looking past him, she murmured an apology and continued on her way, only to find her arm seized in the enormous hand of an army officer in a coat nearly as scarlet as his face.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she stammered. She tried to wriggle loose as the man clapped his other hand to his uniform pocket.

Hoarsely the officer demanded, “Stealin’ my purse, is it, or my kerchief? Ye’re fer the Newgate, my lad! Here!” the man cried lustily, attracting the attention of passersby. “Call me the watch. I’ve been robbed!” Her captor tightened his grip.

“No, indeed, sir,” Jocelyn protested, fear rising in her throat. Regin would soon be back in the running. Who knew how long so hard a head would remain unconscious? Looking back the way she’d come, Jocelyn said, “I’m not a thief!”

“A liar, too, by hell! Give me my purse, or I’ll thrash ye!”

“Come now,” said a stranger, pausing as he walked by, good humor quirking his black brows. “Let the boy go. This isn’t London, my good sir, where every chance encounter may lead to unpleasant end.”

Pleadingly, Jocelyn looked at the stranger. She thought his open face and clear gaze were those of an innocent curate or clerk, though he was perhaps thirty-five, older than such men usually were. His shoulders, too, were perhaps rather straight for him to belong to either crouching profession.

A curate might feel it his duty to stop to aid someone falsely accused. Certainly, no one else seemed interested enough even to stare. “You’re no thief, are you, my lad?” the man in black asked cheerfully, fixing her with his deep brown gaze.

“No, sir, I’m not. I swear I’m not,” she said, her voice quavering up and down an octave.

“There, you see, sir?” Jocelyn’s friend said, smiling with great charm at her accuser, giving him the opportunity to admit his mistake. “An honest lad, if ever I’ve seen one. Besides, not even the meanest thief would in these days steal from one of England’s gallant defenders. Congratulations on Wellington’s elevation to a dukedom. Tell me, were you at Pampeluna, or perhaps San Sebastian?”

Something in this pleasant speech enraged the officer. His face grew purple with rage, and his thick neck overflowed its stock. “I have it now,” he said, spatulate fingers nearly meeting in Jocelyn’s arm as he shook her as a dog shakes a bone. Her hat fell off.

“I have it now! Ye’re in league, the pair of ye. A fiddle-stringer and his pup, I’ll be bound. Have ye both run in.” As the man swelled his lungs to shout again, a silver-headed cane whistled down with a crack across the man’s forearm. He roared out in pain, his fingers opening, no longer obeying his will.

Jocelyn found her arm grasped anew as “Run!” was shouted in her ear. She was towed along behind this unusual clerk as he ran. The rising ruckus behind her lent her feet unaccustomed speed, her hat remaining, a sorry prize, at the feet of the officer in the scarlet coat.

An alley opened to the right, and she followed the bobbing back of her rescuer. She splashed through a muddy puddle. Jocelyn’s heart beat thunderously in her throat, and she could hardly catch a breath. She seemed to have been running for years, forever chased. They dodged down many dark and stinking ways until all sound of pursuit was lost.