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Did she refer to the Duke of Llewellyn? And her? “I am not being courted.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that—”
A terrible noise interrupted Felicity’s observation: a screech produced by the drag of a heavy object and a scrape of metal; whatever was causing it created such a cloud of dust, the source was obscured. People left their shops, and those gathered at the pump abandoned it; the Becketts soon followed, abuzz with anticipation.
As the cloud dissipated, a pageant wagon appeared, listing to the right and dragged forward by a bear, rather than a horse, in the traces. It was flanked by a troupe of players, comprised of one large muscular man, one tall slender man, and a woman who fell in between, all three looking the worse for their travels.
“How d’ do,” said the slender fellow, tugging his forelock.
“Welcome to Lowell Close.” For a large man, Mr. Gambon moved with speed; he was at his duchess’s side to make the introductions. “You are in the presence of Her Grace of Lowell.”
An appropriately theatrical bout of bowing and curtsying was proffered by the actors. Mr. Gambon oversaw the introductions, and the players were revealed to be husband and wife, Moses and Molly Peasely; the strongman was the woman’s brother, Mr. Quincy.
“You have encountered some trouble on your journey,” Felicity observed.
“The axle broke on our way to Arcadia, as we heard the Humphries have returned,” Mr. Peasley said. “Our troupe has long been welcome there.”
“Or our fathers and grandfathers had been,” said Mrs. Peasley.
“And you thought it kind to allow the bear to pull your broken cart,” Felicity asked, her tone acerbic.
The slender fellow was quick to explain. “We had a horse—”
“Not for very long,” said the lady actor. “He ran off the other day, and then the axle shattered—”
“And the bear stood in the traces and would not be moved,” finished her husband.
“I am well able to pull the cart myself,” said the strongman. He flexed his muscles and grinned beneath his luxurious mustache; this was greeted with a ripple of giggles from many in the throng.
“That bear is fierce stubborn,” said Mr. Peasley.
“She is fierce intelligent and suffers no fools.” Mr. Quincy stopped displaying his muscles, incensed at the aspersions cast upon the creature.
“My brother has the care of her,” Mrs. Peasley explained, “and is very protective.”
“Thank you for alerting us to the bear’s gender,” Felicity said, sharing a secret smile with Tabitha. “You are very welcome to Lowell Close. We would be pleased to host you until you can proceed on to Arcadia. Are the plays of Shakespeare in your repertoire?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Mr. Peasley slipped effortlessly into his pitch. “We are known the world over for our expertise in the works of the Bard of Avon and in our unique ability to distill them to their essence and to craft them for brevity.”
“We do the Scottish play in half an hour,” his wife said. “And of courseThe Winter’s Tale.” The bear raised her head. Tabitha was appalled to see the animal so fatigued after pulling the cart; exhaustion was only natural given the effort it took, but there was something unnatural about the beast. A prickle ran along the tips of her fingers, and a chill danced down her spine; she felt the urge to go closer to it, as large and intimidating as it was. She resisted the impulse, fearful of the large animal, and yet she also sensed no aggression. There was something very, very wrong, but she could not work out what it was.
“Let us see your wagon safely to our stables,” said the publican, “and my good lady wife will see to your every comfort.”
A rush of negotiation over room rates ensued as the players followed along. The bear was released from her burden and led away by Mr. Quincy; several of the hardier village lads took up the dragging of the wagon under the direction of Mr. Gambon. No sooner had they turned the corner to the stable yard and the crowd made to disperse than the Duke of Llewellyn, face like thunder and body radiating fury, stormed across the green leading a gigantic chestnut horse.
Felicity gasped. “It’s Himself, big as life.”
Oh dear,Tabitha thought. If that was Himself, her friend was in for a surprise.
Eleven
The horse abandoned all resistance in the face of Alwyn’s sheer force of will, if not his attempts at drawing on hisdominatum.The latter had little effect on the animal, which made him think the equine was an Alpha, which made him angrier. His fury churned through his body, lending him strength, thundering in his heartbeat, coloring his vision in a red haze. Had Alwyn been able to fight the people that had taken him captive, this was what he would have felt: righteous fury fueling his bid to break free.
If he could do this for anotherversipellis, it went some way to make amends to his lion.
As ever, all he passed on his way to the Close retreated; today, it was not out of fear but as a gesture of respect. The horse whinnied under his breath when he saw Her Grace and then sighed, long and gustily.
“I will protect you if that is what is required. The chain will be removed, and you will be freed, even if I have to force it done.” The equine rolled his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t seem bothered by the duchess’s presence and whinnied louder the closer she approached.
