Page 76 of Miss Dramatic
They landed on the road mere yards ahead of the cantering coach horses. Gavin aimed his mount down the center of the lane and refused to give way.
“Git yer wretched arse off the King’s Highway, ye ruddy gobshite!” the coachy called. “Ye be interferin’ with the Royal Mail.”
That expostulation inspired the outside travelers to more cheering.
Gavin put some distance between himself and the coach, then swung Roland around to halt such that the road was thoroughly blocked between venerable stone walls. The coach rocked to a halt amid more profanity from the coachman.
“You are abetting the flight of a suspected felon,” Gavin called. “Put Hammond Drysdale out, and you can be on your way.”
“Are ye oot of yer bluidy mind, Mr. DeWitt?” The guard, a crusty old Scot with whom Gavin had shared an occasional pint, laid his pistol across his knees.
“I am on the king’s business. Hammond Drysdale is suspected of thievery and attempting to flee justice. Put him out, and I’ll trouble you no more. He’s probably disguised as a bearded old man who’s hard of hearing.”
A short conference took place up on the box, and one of the rooftop passengers passed another a coin.
“Drysdale!” the guard called. “If ye be aboard, show yerself.”
The summer sun began to crest the tree tops, one of the coach horses stomped impatiently, and the dust of the road drifted lazily in the morning air. The buffoons on the roof began to stomp and pound on the coach. After a few moments of that nonsense, the coach door swung open, and Drysdale half stumbled, or was half pushed, from the vehicle. A satchel was pitched out after him, nearly hitting him in the breadbasket.
“Thank you,” Gavin said, shifting Roland to the verge. “Mr. Drysdale and I will return to Crosspatch Corners. I appreciate the assistance.”
“I appreciate that colt,” the coachy said. “Likes o’ him deserves to run at Newmarket. He’ll win ye a tidy packet.” The coachy called to his team, cracked the whip above their heads, and rolled off in a fresh cloud of dust.
Roland curvetted and tossed his head, clearly ready to give chase once more.
Gavin thumped his mount on the shoulder. “Good boy. Well done. You are a credit to Crosspatch Corners and to your dam and sire.”
“He’s worth some coin if you can keep him sound,” Drysdale said. “Why the great drama, DeWitt?”
Gavin swung down and took his time loosening Roland’s girth and dealing with the stirrups.
“I gave chase because you were running away.” He took the reins over Roland’s head and began walking in the direction of the village, a good mile up the road. “Come along, Drysdale. The sun will grow hot if you think to tarry.”
“The morning will be comfortable for a while yet.” Drysdale peeled off the false beard and bushy eyebrows he’d been wearing, wadded them up, and tossed them into the ditch. “Wretched stuff is itchy.” He used his handkerchief to wipe away the remains of the glue. “Has your lady decided to have me arrested?”
His tone was jaunty, his smile winsome, and Gavin realized that Hammond Drysdale was a fine actor—off the stage.
“Hasyourlady decided to be quits with you?” Gavin asked, setting a modest pace.
“I’m sparing her the effort.” Drysdale collected his satchel and fell in step. “When I joined Gemma last night, she was already in bed and sharing the mattress with a vast silence familiar to disgraced husbands. I spent a few hours dozing and thinking in a chair, then decided to, for once, do the right thing.”
“Disappear into London?”
“Leave Gemma in peace. We’re not married, you know. She uses my name for propriety’s sake, but she refused my ring. She deserves better, and with me out of the way, she can find it.”
While Drysdale avoided any uncomfortable interviews with the magistrate. How noble of him. “Gemma is devoted to you. If she’s turned down your proposal, then you’re not doing it right.”
“I assure you, DeWitt, when it comes to marital enthusiasms, I can acquit myself—”
“Not that part. You are a discontented husband, or you would be if she ever agreed to marry you. She needs you to sort yourself out. You steal because you think she wants you to build some grand histrionic legacy, but you’re wrong. Gemma just wants you to be yourself and to appreciate her.”
Roland balked, snorted at nothing, then resumed walking.
“Now you’re the sage of Berkshire?”
“I’m a man in love, and not only with the theater. This path will take us to the Twid.” Gavin would have turned down the indicated track, but Roland chose then to prop, stand very tall, then lower his head.
He repeated that maneuver until a rabbit hopped across the path, which occasioned a sidewise shy that devolved into a surreptitious swipe at the grass.
