Point of Honour (21 page)

Miss Tolerance clasped Versellion’s hand and shook it, businesslike. “There is nothing to forgive, sir.” They sat handfast for a moment. Then, with a feeling of some reluctance, Miss Tolerance released her hand and set her heels to her horse’s sides. They rode west.

I
n the end, Miss Tolerance left the Earl of Versellion in a field a few miles outside of Reading, well back from the roadside by a stand of trees. He gave her money to purchase an Italian lexicon and to retain the services of an outrider, if she could. It was close to noon, and both of them were hungry; Miss Tolerance promised to find provisions as well. Before she left him, she gave the earl her pocketknife. Versellion turned it over in his hand thoughtfully.

“Is this for self-defense, or that I might take my own life if the enemy surrounds me?” he asked dryly.

Miss Tolerance blinked. “I had thought, sir, that you might do some whittling. There’s not much else I can suggest by way of amusement.”

As she rode away, a backward look showed her the Earl of Versellion sitting with a small apple branch in one hand and the knife in the other, considering.

June was not the high season in Reading, nor was it market day. The streets were not crowded, which made it easier for Miss Tolerance to watch for persons she could identify as dangerous, but also meant she stood out as a stranger. She left her horse stabled at a public house on the western end of the town and walked on, looking for a cook shop, a bookshop, and a inn large enough so that she might hire a chaise, horses, and a bodyguard. She spied such an establishment upon the main street and turned toward it, then stopped. Coming out of the inn was the man she had left tied up in the stable some hours before. He was in close discussion with a large, villainous-looking fellow, both looking away from Miss Tolerance.

She sank back into a side street with her heart beating so loudly she was surprised that in itself did not give the alarum. Thinking rapidly, she slouched into the back streets of the town. The sight of a used-clothes shop inspired her: she sold her coat and bought another of longer cut, in a drab brown wool, and a pair of gray breeches and a sagging felt hat. Upon a moment’s thought, she bought a coat for Versellion as well, of dark red wool, and an old-fashioned tricorne hat with one side fallen. Wearing her new coat, she immediately felt better, less obvious. It had occurred to her to buy a dress, for her pursuers would be expecting two men, not a man and a woman; but there was the problem of riding pillion. Miss Tolerance balked. Now her objective was to get food and leave Reading undetected. She had forgotten the lexicon until she passed a tiny, shabby bookstore which, from the character of the books it sold, was clearly kept for the governesses and tutors in the households that surrounded the town. There she found an Italian lexicon and a good deal of dust; bought the one, sneezed at the other, and skulked back to the public house where she had stabled her horse.

It was still there. From the house, she bespoke a basket with a half ham, a cheese, some chicken and fruit, a loaf of bread, and a jug of ale. It was hurriedly assembled; at the last minute, making free with Versellion’s funds, she bought a small bottle of brandy and the London papers.

There was no sign that she had been seen or followed, but Miss Tolerance took a long route to return to Versellion. By the time she reached the orchard, the afternoon was well advanced, and Miss Tolerance was aware of an unladylike appetite. Between hunger and the intelligence that men were still actively in pursuit, she was uncommonly eager to find the earl and assure herself of his safety. She marked all the landmarks leading to the tree under which she had left him. She saw his horse tethered by a distant hedge and dozing over the lush grass there. What she saw no sign of was the Earl of Versellion himself.

Miss Tolerance swore and urged her horse forward. There were no signs of a struggle. If Versellion had gone, he had left willingly. But why not take his horse? A sensation of panic-flush swept over her. Under the tree she stopped. There was a pile of wood shavings at the base of the tree, and she realized with a pang that Versellion had been whittling. It was a substantial collection of shavings, made over some time: the earl could not have been gone from the clearing for long. Perplexed, Miss Tolerance removed her hat, wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the rough sleeve of her new coat, and regretted her own lighter coat of blue superfine wool, now hanging from a peg in Reading.

“The devil! You changed your coat!”

Miss Tolerance spun around, seeking the source of Versellion’s voice, but saw nothing behind her, nothing to the left or right or anywhere in the broad expanse of meadow that stretched before her. She looked up and thought she could see, through the thickly leafed branches of the tree, a dark shape.

“Climbing trees, my lord?” She swung down from the saddle, tethered her horse to a tree nearby, and returned to watch as Versellion came down through the branches. “You gave me a moment’s pause, sir.”

The earl dusted bits of twig and leaf from his coat. “No more than you gave me, Miss Tolerance. I looked up from that profitable occupation to which you urged me”—he took a newly made wooden peg from his pocket—“to see an unfamiliar rider approaching. I judged it would be prudent to make myself disappear as completely as possible.”

Miss Tolerance took from her saddlebag the parcel which contained the book and newspapers she had procured. “Very neat, sir. Had I not had cause to look for you here, I would never have stopped—although you did leave some evidence of your presence.” She toed the pile of wood shavings.

Versellion grinned. “I’m new to your game, Miss Tolerance. Next time I shall make sure to take my evidence with me.”

“God willing there shall be no next time,” she said, and took the basket down from her saddle. “I waited nuncheon for you, sir. I presume you have an appetite?”

“My God, yes!”

They sat in the lee of the tree, and no one who had not known they were there could have expected to find them. Versellion laid out the food and Miss Tolerance explained the reason for her change of coat.

“They were in Reading? But how in God’s name could they know we would go west?” Versellion asked at last.

Miss Tolerance had already given the matter some thought. “I wonder if your enemy has not sent out people in all directions, and having found us this morning near the Birmingham road, blanketed the countryside north and west of London? If that is so, your enemy has a good supply of money and men at his disposal. I doubt he will give up easily. Who wants you dead so powerfully, Versellion?”

In silence he considered the question, but found no answer. “Although I tell you, if I do not return to London soon, I had as well be dead as far as my prospects and my party’s are concerned.”

“I understand that—but you must agree that hiring a chaise and outriders will certainly not be possible in Reading. We shall have to go farther afield.”

They made inroads on the meal spread on oiled cloth, drinking in turn from the jug of ale that sat between them. At last Miss Tolerance wrapped the remains of the meal for later consumption. By the sun’s height she reckoned it was about four o’clock. They could count on a little more than four hours more of useful light.

“I think we had best find a place to stay the night, sir. We can continue riding on, north or west, and hope to find an inn so small our pursuers will miss it, or we can look for rougher shelter. I would prefer to ride a little farther from Reading, having seen your attackers there.”

“I am sure you will not want to put up at a posting inn, and any inn small enough for you to endorse as safe will likely be as rough as sleeping in a stable,” Versellion said dryly. “I think, in fact, I should rather prefer a well-kept barn.”

“I believe,” Miss Tolerance said slowly, “that you are beginning to enjoy yourself, sir.”

“I lead a sedate life, Miss Tolerance, and this sort of adventuring is novel to me. Climbing trees and jumping out of windows? Learning rustic skills like whittling? And fresh air is beneficial to the health, is it not? But I think,” he added, “that we must find someplace secure to sleep tonight. I worry for my protector; she looks tired.”

“She is tired, sir,” Miss Tolerance allowed, and put the parcels back in her saddlebag. Versellion’s solicitousness was at once welcome and distasteful to her; she did not like to expose any weakness, even fatigue, but the fact was that she had not slept the night through in several days, and she knew the strain was telling upon her. “Shall we ride west, then?”

They scattered the wood shavings and the crumbs from their meal and mounted their horses, riding at a fair pace, seeking a shelter which would combine the virtues of solitude and solidity. An hour or so before sunset they found their haven, a small cottage that had been abandoned and was now, apparently, used to store hay. The cottage was dry, despite the rains of the last week, with a tiny hearth at the back, framed in stone. The windows were cut high in the walls, meant to admit daylight, not permit observation, and the door was the only way in. Miss Tolerance pronounced herself satisfied, and gathered tinder for a fire.

With the cottage ordered for occupation, Versellion took up the lexicon and the Italian letter and sat down by the door to catch the last daylight. Miss Tolerance sat on the opposite side of the door and produced from her wallet the stub of a pencil; as the earl dictated, she wrote down words on the margins of the newspaper, not trying to make sense of what they meant when strung together. An hour later Miss Tolerance blinked hard. Between fatigue and fading light, the words she wrote were blurring before her.

“My eyes hurt,” she said irritably. “And to tell truth, I cannot make heads or tails of what this means. Could it be writ in code?” She yawned hugely and handed the paper over to Versellion.

The earl examined the paper while Miss Tolerance looked out at the twilit fields. For some time she let the noises and smells of the evening wash over her and thought of very little. If she stayed like this, she would shortly fall asleep.

“It is no use,” Versellion said at last. He held the newspaper before him and was turning it to read the transcriptions and notes which she had made. “Even if I could find every word in the dictionary, I can’t be certain we’d have the meaning of the thing. I must have help.” He sounded thoroughly discouraged.

Miss Tolerance rose from her place, found her saddlebag, and produced the brandy.

“I judged we might need this for the medicinal raising of spirits, my lord.”

Versellion put the paper down. “A very good notion.” He took a long draught and made a face. “And very bad brandy.” He took another draught and bowed to Miss Tolerance: “To my protector!”

Miss Tolerance acknowledged the toast with an incline of her head and took the bottle herself. “To our puzzle,” she said. “Perhaps it is time to light the fire.”

As she set to the task, she asked the earl where he thought he might find help in translating the letter. The earl did not answer. He was bent over the newspaper, poring over it by the last bit of light. When Miss Tolerance repeated her question, he waved one hand at her as if to gain quiet for concentration.

“What were the names we found in the letter?” he asked at last.

The fire was lit. Miss Tolerance took up the letter and held it up. “Miracoli. DiPassi. Hawley. Grudden, Hanschen, Cole, Ippolito …”

“Spell Hawley,” Versellion demanded. She did so, and the earl made a noise of triumph. “I believe, then, that Mr. Hawley might be—or
know-nostra collega di Oxford
. See there.” He poked at a paragraph of type.

Suddenly fully awake, Miss Tolerance took the newspaper and read the item. A small group of scholars at Oxford had been censured for correspondence with Catholic scholars in Italy and Germany, and investigation into possible charges of treason were being discussed.

“There’s nothing new in this, sir. I read a similar notice last week. The war has the whole nation looking under covers for spies.”

“But look at the names, Miss Tolerance.” Versellion leaned close to point out the one name that had caught his attention. “Charles Hawley, lecturer of B——College, Oxford. He stands to lose his post if he cannot defend himself.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I am plainly too tired to understand what this means to
us.
Even were this letter part of that correspondence which has come under investigation-what on earth does this have to do with your family? How came such a letter to be in a fan kept by an old Cheapside abbess? God, I cannot think!”

Versellion drew back, contrite. “You should sleep. In the morning we will both reason better.” He made to assist her up, but Miss Tolerance waved him away and retreated to a corner of the cottage where the straw was thick. She pulled off her boots, lay down with her coat to cover her, and shouldered her way into the straw until she was comfortable. She murmured good night to her companion and within moments was asleep.

She woke, suddenly, in the middle of the night. She could not tell what had wakened her, and lay still for a time, listening in the darkness. At last she rose up, bootless, and went to the door. The fields and trees that lay beyond were only shadows silvered by the moon. Under one tree their horses drowsed silently. Miss Tolerance looked one way, the other, saw nothing moving, and slumped against the doorframe.

Versellion spoke out of the darkness behind her.
“En garde
, even in your sleep? Your fencing master taught you well.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.”

Versellion emerged from the shadows of the cottage and joined her, looking out over the fields. He leaned in a posture mirroring hers against the far side of the door. “Surely fencing was an odd sort of pastime for a schoolgirl. Ought you not to have been making samplers and learning to play the pianoforte?”

“I did those things, too. But I badly wanted for active occupation. I was permitted to ride—sedately, with a groom at my side. I was permitted to walk—sedately, with my governess. I could stitch, and read sermons to my grandmother, and write letters, and practice upon the pianoforte.”