Page 49 of Against the Wind

Chapter 17

Entering the Dog Inn, Kit set her sketchbook aside and looked around its common room. A cheery place, several sets of windows bathed the space in warm sunlight. Only a few villagers were eating: it was too early for a crowd in the tavern.

An older woman with gray hair greeted her. “Good day ta ye. I am Martha Onion. You must be visiting Pentridge.”

Kit said, “Yes, Mrs. Onion. I’m Mrs. Donet. Pleased to meet you.”

“The wife of the gentleman at the meeting upstairs?”

“I’m sorry,” said Kit, surprised. “The meeting upstairs?”

“Why, I do believe that a Mr. Donet, a Frenchman and his friend, were two of the ones who came to see Mr. Oliver today.”

Kit was confused. What could he be doing here? She hadn’t known Martin was meeting someone at the Dog Inn, and neither had she known he was posing as a Frenchman, even if it made sense considering the name he was using. But, then, he’d left the inn before she arose and was therefore given no time to inform her. Perhaps she should act like she was aware of his plans.

“Yes, my husband did mention a meeting,” she allowed. “Upstairs, you say?”

“Aye, the lot of them. Drinking and planning for the uprising, you see. ’Twill be a grand affair when the new government is in place. My own husband John is there with them. He’s hoping to gain a position ’longside Mr. Oliver and Cap’n Brandreth.”

“Of course,” Kit said. Then she smiled and asked for a table, deciding to have some luncheon while she pondered the woman’s words.

A Frenchman! What could he be doing in Derbyshire posing as a Frenchman? Frustrated by being left out in the cold and wondering what her new husband was up to, she slammed her sketchbook down on the table. Then, after quickly eating a bowl of mutton stew and bread, she tucked her sketchbook under her arm and quietly stole upstairs. If Martin wasn’t going to tell her what was happening, she would find out for herself.

A door in the corridor was ajar. As she approached, the sounds of men’s voices floated out to where she was standing. Through the slight opening Kit saw a handful of men, including Martin and John and George Weightman from the White Horse, sitting around a table. She listened attentively, hoping to catch a word but never expecting to hear what she did. There sat her handsome husband, John next to him, drinking with men who spoke about taking up arms against the British government. The face of the one called the Nottingham Captain was particularly arresting.

Aghast, Kit flattened herself against the wall, heart thumping. Had she heard right? A march on London! Was the man to whom she’d given her heart and body a traitor? Was he plotting revolution? No wonder they were here under an assumed name! Did Mary and her husband know of this? She was certain they did not, since Mary had been unable to give Kit any details of Martin’s work or why they were even traveling to the Midlands.

Images of Martin darted through her mind. He had been in France, and his voice still carried traces of that time. Had he been working for England’s enemy even then? But, Mary had told her he’d toiled with Ormond. Kit’s thoughts were a jumble as she considered the possibilities. Perhaps he’d once worked for England but now sought revolution. After all, his grandfather was a French pirate.

The men continued to talk, their conversation focused on a meeting to set the date for an “uprising.” Oh my God. How was she to live with a traitor? How could she be loyal to him and loyal to her country? And, if he did plot against the Crown, should she try and stop him?

The noise of chairs sliding back over the wooden floor announced the men were rising to leave. She couldn’t be caught there. Not by revolutionaries. Turning, she fled down the stairs and out the door.

Riding along the dirt road to Pentridge, the Earl of Rutledge contemplated what manner of chap was Castlereagh’s man in Derbyshire. Could this William Oliver actually rouse the north counties as Castlereagh hinted during their meeting in London? Rutledge hoped it was so, for if it was and, if he himself could manage things from this end, assuring there were enough men to put down the manufactured rebellion, assuring the rebels were captured, Castlereagh and Sidmouth would have all they needed to justify the additional measures the government intended to impose on the populace. Then he, the Earl of Rutledge, would finally have the reward he’d been seeking: a new position in Liverpool’s government and the recognition he well deserved.

Along those lines, he also wondered if he could believe the words of the magistrate with whom he’d just spoken.

“My lord, all has been made ready, I assure you,” Edward Mundy promised, albeit nervously. A man going to fat with bulging eyes, he didn’t seem much the magistrate. Rutledge had expected a man with proper military demeanor and discipline. “I’ve been told by my men over a hundred of the seven hundred workers at the Butterley Ironworks just down the road from Pentridge have been sworn in as special constables, and we’ve twenty fully armed officers of the Fifteenth Light Dragoons on hold at Nottingham in anticipation of the uprising.”

“And when might you be expecting that uprising?”

The magistrate squirmed under Rutledge’s harsh glare. “Oliver says ’twill be the ninth of June, my lord.”

Rutledge allowed his most imperious scowl to fix the fidgeting man. “See that a messenger is sent to Castlereagh on my behalf so advising him. And these special constables you speak of must be ready to move on the day set.” He’d turned to leave, then added, “They’d best be ready or there will be hell to pay.”

Now entering Pentridge, he was still lost in the recollection, pondering whether or not the jittery magistrate could be counted upon, when a woman darted across the path of his horse. With a start, Rutledge reined in to avoid her. Fool chit!

Her auburn hair immediately drew his attention, and from the direction she was fleeing it seemed she’d just left his intended destination, the Dog Inn. Then he noticed the familiar profile as she paused before hurrying down the road.

My God. It’s Katherine.

He would know that face, that body, that hair anywhere. But what the devil was she doing in Pentridge? Had she flown so far to escape him? A smile slowly formed on the earl’s face as he considered the possibility. By Jove, what a fortunate development. Small wonder his runners could not find her. Ah, but this was too sweet. The hare had come to the hound!

He veered from his course, slowly walking his horse behind her. Oblivious to his presence, Katherine ducked hurriedly into the White Horse Inn.

Rutledge pulled up before the stone lodging house, dismounted, and tied his horse to the post, carefully stepping inside. Katherine was nowhere in sight, but a young man with blond hair approached.

“Good day to ye, sir. My mother the proprietress is not in at the moment. Would ye be needing a room?”