Page 52 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
SURREY
EMMA
We had come soclose to Hartfield.
“How long until the roadisopen?” I asked the officer. Arguing had achieved nothing, so I tried a helpless smile and peering through my lashes. “I reallymustreturn home.”
That made him tidy his scarlet lapel with its brass buttons. He looked young for an officer, perhaps younger than I, and I remembered Georgiana mourning young, dead soldiers.
Unfortunately, a tidied lapel did not change his answer. “It was unwise to travel in the first place. All residents in the south parish were told to remain at home. There is a war.”
“Of course, there is a war. But it is nothere—”
“It is enemy agents that concern us. Blackcoats, infiltrators, and spies. There are reports.”
I looked entreatingly at Mr. Knightley. Thus far, he had watched in silence.
“I am sure the captain knows his business,” Mr. Knightley said gravely.
That was either a subtle message or singularly unhelpful, but I had no idea which.
“If you will excuse me,” the officer said. He bowed smartly and crossed the road to harangue a pair of soldiers who had lit a pipe.
“I told you this might be difficult,” Mr. Knightley said to me.
We stood beside our stopped coach, stranded on Donwell Road, just north of Highbury village. Hartfield was south of the village, two miles farther.
I watched twenty soldiers march past in a double column, their red coats grimy, oily muskets at their shoulders. Others blockaded the road to prevent anyone from crossing.
“Did you encounter this sort of obstacle on your last trip to the south?” I asked.
“At times.”
“How did you get past?”
“I did not bat my eyelashes and smile.” That earned him a cool look, and he admitted, “I was on official military business. Sanctioned by the War Council.”
Beyond the marching soldiers, the village looked perfectly normal. “Do you think it is dangerous?”
“I cannot judge. This seems a heavy-handed tactic to root out spies. But armies are not renowned for moderation.”
I angled my head, shading the sun with the bonnet’s brim. “People are walking about in the village. I can see them. What is the point of keeping us from crossing this one road?”
“Armies are not renowned for logic, either.”
I considered that, then batted my eyes at Mr. Knightley. “I am sure the captain knows his business. Shall we turn the coach around?”
We headed back north,but at the first junction, I knocked on the front panel and signaled the driver to turn right.
“Where are we going?” Mr. Knightley asked.
“I cannot bring you all this way without showing you the sights.”
“Would these sights be in the southern parish?”
“Now that you mention it, I believe they are.” I looked through the rear window to ensure the officer was not watching, then turned back and met Mr. Knightley’s frown. I frowned right back. “Oh, do not trythat. You crossed the line of battle. I doubt you convinced the enemy by waving a letter from Lord Wellington.”
After a half mile, the road entered the orchards. Apples and pears rained blossoms like butterflies. I signaled again and pointed to a farmhouse, where the coach stopped.
