Page 42 of Against the Wind

Chapter 15

What a strange journey she’d been on, Kit reflected as she continued to sketch the ironworks. The White Horse Inn was her seventh home in only a few months, if she counted those where she’d spent only one night, and Pentridge was a far cry from the parlors of London. Yet here she was with a new husband who was charming, intelligent and handsome—and proficient with a pistol and knife. He was more than she’d ever thought to have, and she was becoming very attached to him. Still, he remained mysterious; now even more so. This morning and here at the ironworks she had sensed some tension hidden beneath his otherwise calm surface. He was worried, but about what?

As she watched him staring at the ironworks, his hair blown by the breeze in casual abandon, her heart warmed. She would have to remember that pose to sketch him when they returned to the inn.

“Come, Kit,” he said as she finished her picture of the ironworks. “Let us return. I must see to a few things with John this afternoon. Perhaps tonight our proprietress can find us some wine for our dinner. I’m already weary of English ale.”

They returned to the White Horse, where John was waiting. He had news, and once she and Martin dismounted the two men started off with the horses toward the stables, their heads bent and speaking in whispered words to each other.

As she watched, Martin’s head jerked up and he turned from John to look down the road into the distance. Then Kit heard the shrieks and screams, and she followed Martin’s searching gaze to the end of the village.

Martin returned to her side and commanded, “Stay here, Kit.” Then he and John mounted the two horses and kicked them into a gallop.

Something of great magnitude was obviously happening, and Kit would not be left behind. She hurried down the road after them and arrived to see villagers gathered around a fenced paddock. Martin and John had left their horses and were at the fence surrounding the large enclosure, watching as a drama unfolded before them.

A crying woman stood at the railing, her eyes focused on a large red-brown bull with pointed horns standing in the middle of the pen, shaking its head up and down and pawing at the ground. Several feet in front of the agitated beast was a small child, whom Kit thought could not be more than two, walking on wobbly legs.

The village men stood debating what to do. “I ain’t going in there,” said one. “That bull already skewered young Harry this week.”

Martin didn’t hesitate. He shouted an order to John, and both leapt the railing and dropped into the enclosure. The village men took a step back, expressing amazement, and the bull raised his head. Kit rushed the fence to watch.

The child stopped walking and sat roughly on his bottom, only now aware of the two approaching men and the bull. He began to wail. The woman next to Kit gripped the rough wooden railing with white-knuckled hands, sobbing as she stared intently at the child; then she made as if to climb the fence.

Kit put her hand on the woman’s arm, stilling her movement. “Let the men try first.”

Martin cautiously approached the bull while speaking to John. “Let’s circle him. I’ll draw him off then you grab the child.”

Working in tandem, the pair wove a path in front of and to the side of the bull, distracting it from the child. The beast dug one hoof in the ground and growled its displeasure at the invasion of its enclosure, darting its head from side to side, all the while keeping its eyes on the men. Then, suddenly, the beast dropped its head and charged.

Kit held her breath, her fist pressed against her clenched teeth as she anxiously watched the now aggressive and snorting bull aimed full tilt at her husband. She was shocked at how fast the large animal moved, but Martin must have expected it, or perhaps even encouraged it, for he made a sharp turn to the left. The bull, undoubtedly wanting him gone, tried to follow.

Having lured the bull half the pen’s distance from the child, Martin called out to John, “Now!” John dove to the ground, swept the crying child into his arms, and raced back to the fence where Kit stood next to the terrified mother. He handed the child over the railing, into the eager arms of the waiting woman, and scaled the fence himself. In the distance Martin jumped, but the bull’s horn caught his forearm as he cleared the far rail. Kit gasped, seeing the red on his torn sleeve.

“Martin!” She rushed around the side of the pen toward him, but he was already striding around the paddock to join her. “You’re hurt,” she said as he closed the distance. His left forearm was bleeding.

“Fortunately only a scratch,” he said, holding his hand over the place where the bull had marked him, indicating they should join the mother and her child beside John.

Kit wrapped his wound with a handkerchief she took from her pocket. “This will hold the cut until we can return to the inn.”

They arrived at front of the enclosure to the cheers of the men who had done nothing but watch. The mother of the child was running her fingers over her son in careful examination, but by this time the child had stopped crying, happy to be in his mother’s arms.

The woman faced Martin and John, surrounded on all sides by her neighbors. “Oh thank ye, good sirs, thank ye.” She held her child close to her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. “I was so afraid.”

“We were pleased to help, ma’am,” Martin said.

John smiled in agreement and asked, “Is the child unharmed?”

“Aye, he is well,” the mother said. She stared at Martin in awe. “He’s nae hurt, Mr.—”

“Donet,” Martin supplied, “and this is my wife Mrs. Donet and my assistant Mr. Fournier.”

Kit wondered at that. Wasn’t John’s surname Spencer? That was how he’d been introduced in London.

“I am much in yer debt, all of ye. And I’m very sorry for yer wound, Mr. Donet. Is it bad?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve suffered much worse,” Martin said, making light of the injury that, to Kit’s dismay, still seeped blood.

“I’ve quite forgot my manners, Mr. Donet. I am Mrs. Moore. My husband Edward is the cobbler. And this little one you and yer friend rescued is my precious Johnnie.”