Page 56 of Against the Wind

“Unfortunately it has gone beyond a mere desire for change. I have been sent here by the Crown to learn the true source of the planned rebellion.”

The older man pursed his lips. “Assuming I can believe that, and I’m not certain I do, what interest has the Crown in the Midlands? Surely this is a local matter for our magistrates.”

“Unfortunately, the Midlands has become involved in schemes that reach as far as London.” Martin gave a slight nod to John in acknowledgment of what they both knew had to be revealed.

“London?” The manager looked at him askance. “What does London have to do with some unhappy men in Derbyshire? The magistrates have already been to see me and sworn in a hundred of my men to act as special constables should there be any trouble.” He gazed out the window. “Even that seemed too much.”

Martin and John exchanged glances. Though new information, it was not surprising. Martin expected both sides to recruit support from this large a pool of men. “I am hoping you are right. It is my desire to avoid violence if at all possible.”

The manager’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “That is my hope as well, Mr. Donet. My men have been through much in recent times.”

“My real name is Sir Martin Powell, Mr. Goodwin. I come from London, sent by the Prince Regent himself. Our monarch is most anxious to know what is going on here. I bring you both a message and a request.”

An expression of surprise flickered on George Goodwin’s face. “Sir Martin?”

Martin nodded.

Goodwin’s surprise faded, and he leaned across his desk. “What message?”

“I believe the good men of Derbyshire, for the most part, do not seek active rebellion, but their unhappy condition of late has rendered them vulnerable to a man who would, for his own purposes, urge them to violence. The agent provocateur is one William Oliver, who works for men in Sidmouth’s government seeking to incite the very rebellion the magistrates have asked you to help quash.”

Goodwin stared down at his desk, his hand nervously fumbling with a paper. “I have heard of this man Oliver. He’s a bad one, I think. But why would men in the government want to incite a rebellion? That makes no sense.”

“To justify repressive measures and, once they see the rebellion put down, send a message to all of England that there will be no revolution here as there was in France.”

Raising his head, Goodwin said, “I begin to see. And do the magistrates know of this?”

“They know Oliver was sent by some in the government because they were asked to cooperate with him. So, yes, I believe they know. Undoubtedly, the request for your special constables is the direct result of their complicity.”

“Where is all this leading, then?” asked Goodwin.

“It is possible,” Martin said, “even likely, that you or your men will be approached by the leaders of a group of rebels seeking weapons, or the makings of such, as well as men to join their cause. If you can convince them to turn from their path and go home, to avoid an altercation with the authorities, it would be a gift to the people of Derbyshire.”

“It pleases me to hear you say so, Sir Martin. I worried when the local magistrate asked me for the special deputies. To me it only spelled violence.”

“You may be the key to keeping the countryside calm, perhaps even a voice of reason in the midst of a growing insanity, Mr. Goodwin.”

The older man squared his shoulders as if accepting the responsibility Martin offered. “When do you expect this to happen?”

“Soon. Though I cannot give you a date with any confidence, I have heard Oliver mention the ninth of June. I will get word to you through John, my assistant here, should we catch wind of a more specific time.”

Goodwin gave John a measured look as John nodded and said, “Aye, ye’ll be seeing me afore long, I expect.”

“I will gladly do as you ask,” said Goodwin. “I have no wish to see the men of Derbyshire involved in any uprising. ’Tis only foolishness. No good can come of it.”

Martin and John rose from their chairs and, as they did, Mr. Goodwin stood to shake their hands. “Thank you for coming, Sir Martin.”

“Mr. Donet, please.”

The older man nodded, and Martin was assured his message had been well received and his confidence kept. Now, if they could only assure no lives were lost.

Kit had come to enjoy the peace of the village, notwithstanding her displeasure at her husband’s continued reticence to tell her how he was involved in the plans for an uprising in Pentridge. She took long walks and, during the days following the skirmish at the barn, sometimes rode with John or Martin to the neighboring towns of Belper, Ripley or South Wingfield. It was the end of the first week in June and the days were long. Though sometimes they were favored with sunshine, more often a cold rain fell upon the village. Today, observing the chill in the air and dark clouds on the horizon, she determined to take her sketchbook outside to draw while she could.

From her seat on the wooden bench in front of the inn, she could see lambs grazing in the far distance on the green hillsides and thought perhaps it was a sign that times would be better for the people of the Midlands. She hoped so. Watching the endless circle of life in the farm animals was peaceful and reassuring. Pentridge had brought a quiet to Kit’s life so different from the frantic pace in London and the tragic events of her past.

She’d become a familiar sight as she sat on a stone wall or bench drawing the faces of the villagers going about their day, working in the fields, tending their sheep or feeding their chickens. There were always children running with dogs, too. Many waved or bid her good day as they passed. Not a few times George Weightman, sometimes accompanied by one of his brothers, stopped to chat. On this particular morning he was alone when he paused to speak to her, just on his way out of the White Horse.

“Have ye finished my picture, Mrs. Donet?” he asked, flashing his blue eyes at her.