Escaping Notice (2 page)

“That’s rich coming from the likes o’ you!” The boy laughed, but
did not halt the wagon. “You should’ve saved yourself the trouble
of heaving yourself onto me wagon—I’m only going as far as Wells.
That takes you south o’ your mark.”

“South, maybe, but closer all the same. Now be quiet and drive,
for I’ve a mind to shut my eyes.”

“You can do as you likes and be sure I’d do the same!” came the
lad’s insouciant reply. A few minutes later, he began whistling a
jaunty tune.

Despite his efforts, however, his whistle could not drown out
the sounds of deep, slumberous breathing from atop the kegs of fish
behind him.

§

“Wake up!”

Hugh sat up and groaned. His body felt as stiff as his clothing.
The cart had come to a halt in a narrow alley, and two
roughly-dressed men were unloading the barrels. The lad who had
driven the wagon was staring down at Hugh, hands planted on his
slim hips.

“If you helps unload, Mr. Blackstone says you can have a pint o’
ale, bread and fish. If you be quick, I’ll take you down the road a
bit toward Bath as well.”

“Done!” Hugh winced when his feet touched the ground, but he
ignored the pain and hauled the barrel, on which he had been
sitting, into the back of the shop.

“I’m Tom,” the lad called on Hugh’s second trip to the
wagon.

He nodded but did not answer. His clenched jaw ached as he
forced back a groan when he stubbed a toe against one of the wagon
wheels. Behind him, a line of bloody footprints trailed across the
wooden floor.

Hefting the last barrel, Hugh let out a sigh of relief and
carried it inside. He set it down with the others and stretched his
back. Sleeping in the cart hadn’t done him much good. He felt
bruised and battered. Barely able to swallow, he rubbed his parched
lips and joined the men as they crowded around a rough table.

“So, what’s your name?” Tom picked up the ragged bits of linen
covering several tin plates laden with food. He threw the cloths
down on a spindly wooden chair and sat down, before tossing a
crusty loaf of bread to Hugh.

Hugh tore the loaf in half and handed Tom the largest piece,
though in truth, he could cheerfully have eaten the entire
thing.

“Hugh,” he answered, after taking a long draft of beer. The
liquid slipped down his throat in a refreshing, malty stream. Aware
of the ache in his belly, he took a huge bite of the crust,
savoring the rich taste of creamy butter and the soft, yeasty scent
of the bread.

Tom nodded, before studying the cheese and cutting a large
slice. “Well, Hugh, there be cheese and fish. And a few more sips
of beer left.” He paused to take a large bite of a deep yellow
wedge of cheese. He chewed methodically while eying Hugh. “You’re a
bit rough, mate, if you don’t mind my saying. Hate to be in your
way if you was to be annoyed.”

Hugh’s brows rose in surprise. He must look worse than he
thought, for he was generally held to be a mild, amiable man. In
truth, his acquaintances routinely described him as “placid” or
“easygoing,” much to his annoyance.

“I’ve had some trifling difficulties.” He wolfed down a large
hunk of cheese and bread before draining his tankard of beer.

Snorting, Tom shook his head. “I’ll be bound the other fellow
you had
difficulties
with came off a mite worse.”

“Not yet,” Hugh replied easily enough, though a slow, burning
anger flared in his belly at the unwitting reminder of the
accident.
Lionel
.

“Is that why you’re off to Bath?”

“Yes. There’s someone I need to find.”

“Poor bloke.”

Poor, indeed.

“
When
preparing for a journey, care should be taken ….”—
The Complete
Servant

April 19, 1819, Chipping Wycombe,
Buckinghamshire

As usual, Edward Brown-Leigh’s two elderly maiden aunts could
not comprehend his reasoning or the necessity of placing his frog
in the tea pot. Naturally, he assured them, he had carefully
emptied the pot and replaced the boiling tea with suitably tepid
pond water. While he was only eleven years old, he was not a
complete idiot – despite what they told him.

It was the perfect environment for a frog. The pot had both a
lid and a natural opening for air.

However, when Aunt Esther recovered her ability to speak
coherently, she stated in no uncertain terms that she could no
longer be expected to care for such a thoughtless little beast.

“But Aunt, that’s
redundant
, isn’t it? Thoughtless little
beast?” Edward protested, emphasizing the word “redundant,” which
he had just learned the previous day. “Aren’t all beasts
thoughtless by their very nature, since they can’t think?
Rationally, that is. And I’m not sure frogs really aren’t
thoughtless. Or beasts, for that matter. Aren’t they
amphibians?”

His aunt’s face turned a shade of red he had never seen before.
He watched her with interest and hoped his logical response would
finally win an argument with at least one of his hitherto
irrational aunts.

“I have had
enough
of you, young man!” Aunt Esther
sputtered, her voice fractured by the series of deep breaths she
sucked in as if the room lacked air.

Edward glanced at the open window and then back at his aunt. The
curtains fluttered in the breeze. There really was plenty of
air.

“Shall I open the other window?” he offered politely.

“
Be quiet
!” She waved a lace-edged handkerchief in front
of her face.

Could she smell the frog now residing in Edward’s pocket?

He worked to keep his face expressionless. Everyone knew frogs
did not smell —
a
t least not particularly.
The amphibian wriggled. He clamped his hand round it, fearing it
would escape into the room. If it did, his Aunt Esther would have
it destroyed. She did not approve of animals in the house.

Or small boys, for that matter.

She was particularly vehement about pets; especially if young
boys expressed an interest in having one.

“Well?” A speck of angry foam clung to her thin lower lip. “What
have you to say for yourself?”

He stared at her. “Nothing. You told me not to —”

“Be quiet!”

He obeyed, until quite illogically, she demanded yet again that
he explain himself.

He smiled patiently and took a deep breath. Then, as he did when
reciting, he stared at a point just above the lace cap perched on
her gray hair. “Betty wasn’t supposed to serve the tea yet, Aunt
Esther. I was only using the pot to hold him temporarily —”

“Enough! I warned you if you misbehaved once more, you would be
sent to your cousin, Lord Monnow.
He
won’t tolerate such
disobedience, or listen to your nonsense about running off to join
the Navy, though you could stand a little discipline, young man. I
would have thought that after losing both your parents to the sea
you’d stay well away from it.” She sighed, before eyeing him with a
hard glint in her gray eyes. “What can you expect from a boy-child?
Your father was the very same. How many times did I try to talk
some sense into my brother, only to have him laugh and do precisely
as he wished?”

“I don’t know —” Edward started to say. How could she reasonably
expect him to have a count of her conversations with his father,
when they occurred before Edward was even born?

She ignored him. “I have tried to be a mother to you, Edward,
and do my duty to my brother’s only child. But you have thwarted my
every effort on your behalf. Perhaps a man will have better luck
than I in guiding your footsteps. Be warned — the earl will not
tolerate your tricks, and I am sorry for it. However, you’ll have
to go to Lord Monnow by the end of the week. My health cannot bear
this any longer, and I daresay my sister feels precisely the same
way. Now, go to your room and consider what you have done.”

Dismissed, Edward escaped from the chilly sitting room. He did
not go to his room, however. Instead, he wandered down to the
stream trickling through the bottom of the garden and reluctantly
released his frog. His spirits sank further as he watched it kick
out and swim away.

His last friend, gone.

When the creature disappeared from sight, he picked up a rock
and threw it over the stream toward a tangle of bushes. It was a
miracle Aunt Esther had not seen fit to get rid of the stream yet,
since it afforded her nephew so many opportunities for enjoyment.
As far as Edward could determine, Aunt Esther was a woman who
disliked giving anyone opportunities of any kind.

Savoring the word “opportunity,” which he had also learned
earlier in the week, Edward stared at the water and kicked at a
clump of mud. It fell with a satisfying plunk into the clear
stream. Too bad he had failed to catch the otter he had seen
slipping along the banks a few mornings ago. He could have released
that into the house. The results would have been much more
satisfying, and the punishment much the same.

The Earl of Monnow is a bloody beast!

Edward did not know much about him, except that Aunt Esther held
him in awe and never lost an opportunity to threaten Edward with a
reminder of the earl’s bad temper and unforgiving wrath. With a
deepening sense of despair, Edward decided the earl was a nasty,
strict old man with no sense of humor and a dozen canes for
whipping disobedient young boys. He probably kept stacks of them —
complete with sharp thorns — propped up in the corner of every
room.

Of course, Edward did not have a great deal of respect for Aunt
Esther’s judgment, but he did believe Lord Monnow might prove to be
a major impediment to his plans to join the Navy. He would probably
refuse to allow it, just to spite him.

Sitting back on his heels, he wriggled his fingers in the cool,
sparkling ripples of the stream. What would Admiral Nelson do under
such trying circumstances? He certainly would not let two old
ladies, or even a foul-tempered earl, prevent him from going to
sea. He would simply go.

Edward decided that was precisely what he would do. He would run
away to London, before Aunt Esther had a chance to bundle him up
like an unwanted parcel and send him off to Lord Monnow.

He returned to the house with a spring in his step and a
brilliant plan running through his mind.

That night, Edward sneaked down the servants’ stairs, clutching
a small leather valise in his hand. The handle was already damp in
his grip as he crept, staying close to the wall so the stairs
wouldn’t creak under his weight. It was a tactic he had often used
to slide down to the kitchens for a late-night bowl of clotted
cream and crumbled biscuit, so he felt confident of success. He
paused half-way down, listening.

Nothing
.

The bag felt heavy, and he had not even left the house. He
shifted it from his left to his right hand, watching the motes of
dust sparkle in the moonlight coming through the semi-circular
window above the door. The dry, dusty air tickled his nose.

He hastily pinched his nostrils to avoid sneezing.

Had he forgotten anything? The bloody valise weighed at least
two stone. He had packed two spare shirts, extra breeches and his
leather journal, together with the pocket watch his father had left
him, along with his grandfather’s sextant, wrapped in an extra
jacket at the very bottom. The solid brass sextant was the heaviest
of the lot, but he could not leave it behind. It was the most
important thing in his bag.

Determination stiffened his resolve. While it would be difficult
for a lad of eleven to join the Navy without parents to sponsor
him, he had full confidence in his abilities to convince the
Admiralty to sign him. They’d be lucky to have such a stalwart
lad.

They could not refuse when he already had a sextant.

And although running off was a bit hasty, it seemed best after
his recent misunderstanding with The Aunts. If he waited, he might
discover that Lord Monnow intended to keep him in chains, as well
as beat him daily. Escape might prove difficult, if not
impossible.

So he had to go now. Then one day, he would return as a famous
admiral.

His aunts would be truly sorry they had mistreated him then. And
so would Lord Monnow.

Truly sorry.

“ …
she
should learn … to manifest good taste, by suiting the ornaments and
decoration of her dress to the complexion ….” —
The Complete
Servant

April 20, 1819, Oxford, Oxfordshire

Helen Archer flung her dresses, petticoats and shawls onto her
bed while she searched with increasing desperation through her
trunks.

The necklace was not there. She glanced around her room. She and
her uncle were visiting relatives in Oxford, and she was to travel
to London today to join her sister. What would her sister say?

“Well?” her uncle, John Archer, asked. “Where is it? I trust you
have not lost it.”

“No, I —” She broke off, flushing.

She had lost it — the Peckham Necklace — and she choked at the
thought of admitting it.

“Then you’ll just have to find it.” Her uncle crossed his arms
over his chest.

“I cannot! That is —”

“Would you rather face the embarrassment of being the Archer who
lost the Peckham Necklace after you sister so heroically found
it?”

Dearest Oriana had found the awful necklace while cleaning a
closet — not precisely a
heroic
action
.
Nonetheless,
everyone was appropriately grateful to the brilliant Miss Oriana
Archer and once more looked down their noses with pity at dull
Helen. The Archers unanimously considered Helen to be the pretty,
but silly, sister, although they only held that high an opinion
because she managed to dress well on a very slim allowance. They
saw her lovely dresses and colorful ribbons and mistook them for
prettiness.