Page 27 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Now, as Jack looked on, a pair of stable boys jostled one another across the inn yard for the privilege of tending to Rivington’s horses. It was impossible to forget who and what Rivington was—barkeeps kept his glass filled, boot boys bowed and scraped. Rivington responded to the lot of them with an endless supply of shiny coins and a sunny nonchalance, as if it never occurred to him that a person might be met with any other treatment.
Jack needed to breathe for a minute. “I’ll meet you back in the taproom in half an hour,” he called over his shoulder as he hopped out of the curricle. He headed across the inn yard without waiting for a response. A walk always cleared his head.
Even though this village likely consisted of little more than a row of cottages, a church, and an inn serving watered-down ale, it would be a relief to spend a few days in the same place. Jack had relied utterly on Rivington for all things related to navigation—the geography of the north of England was nothing more than an ominous question mark to Jack. This morning, as plain as day, he had seen mountains to the west, mountains that he was certain had no business being in England at all, and yet there they were, which only went to show how completely unreliable everything became the farther one got from London.
He located the church steeple at the opposite end of the high street and decided to make that the destination of his walk. Before beginning his investigations he wanted to get the lay of the land. On the way to the church he passed a couple of modest-looking houses and the sort of shops you’d expect to see in a village of this size—a chandler, an apothecary, a dry-goods merchant. Some smaller roads bisected the high road at any and all angles other than perpendicular.
The church was situated at the top of a small rise. Jack passed through the lynch gate and saw that the churchyard spilled down the hill toward a stream, the gravestones looking for all the world like they were about to tumble into the water. But if they had managed to survive a couple hundred years without landing in the stream—and according to the dates on some of the stones they had done precisely that—he guessed they’d survive a couple hundred more. The effect was still unsettling.
Beyond the churchyard, a wooden bridge crossed the stream, leading to a house that had to be the vicarage. Also on the other side of the stream was a hill that was the mirror image of the one Jack stood on, on top of which was a very large house. That had to be Pickworth Hall, the house where Mrs. Wraxhall had grown up. Her father had bought it from an impoverished gentleman after making a pile of money building canals, and even more investing in the mills and mines that used the canals.
He could see how another person might find this place charming, with its crooked streets and profusions of ivy, but Jack felt like a fish in a bowl—nothing to look at, little to do, altogether too visible and too vulnerable.
When he returned to the inn, he found Rivington already waiting for him in the taproom, conversing easily with a man about his own age. So, he had run into a friend. Not a surprise—the gentry made it their business to know people in towns and villages all over the globe. The richer the man, the more likely it was that he had gone to a school whose only purpose was to introduce him to other rich lads and make all of them unfit for the company of anyone but themselves.
He pushed aside the thought of exactly how companionable he had found Rivington over the past few days. Well, that was done with. Now that Rivington had found one of his own he’d be uneasy about the connection with Jack, he’d be reminded of how totally unsuitable it was for them to be so much as traveling together, never even mind anything else. As he watched them, Jack felt something alarmingly close to jealousy seeping into the edges of his thoughts.
But then Rivington caught sight of Jack and his face broke into a grin that caused Jack’s breath to catch. “Turner!” he called, waving him over. “This is Nicholas Peale, formerly of His Majesty’s Army. We were in Belgium together.”
Peale rose and shook Jack’s hand. “Belgium—that much is true. I can’t remember half the other places.”
Jack wondered if they had already performed the British upper class ritual of listing everyone they knew in common or if he’d have to sit through that. Rivington and his friend were wearing nearly identical country attire, which did nothing to assuage Jack’s feelings that he was an outsider. That was another thing these rich bastards did, all these costume changes. All the better to keep the club exclusive, he supposed. He had spent enough years as a valet to know the rules governing what to wear and when to wear it, but he never failed to be amazed by the sheer expense of the wardrobe required to be rich.
To be fair, though, Rivington looked damned well in his riding coat. Whatever outrageous sum he had paid for it had been money well spent. However much Jack detested the class it signified, he wouldn’t mind peeling it off Rivington’s shoulders later on.
“You know,” Rivington was saying, “my sister has a friend who lives somewhere around here but I can’t remember her name. You remember Charlotte, she has friends from every town and village in the kingdom. So when she heard I was coming to Pickworth she was quite insistent that I call on her friend. But I’m afraid I wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to what the lady’s name was. I’m going to be in frightful trouble, aren’t I?”
Now, what the devil was this? Rivington hadn’t said anything about using this line to get information, and Jack didn’t like to see the script changed without his consent.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Peale said, “because I know all the ladies in a five-mile radius.”
Rivington laughed dutifully. Jack resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest in impatience.
“There’s Miss Barrow at the cottage. Old Mrs. Durbin lives at Pickworth Hall but she spends most of her time at Tunbridge Wells or Bath or wherever it is old ladies go. I have to say that I doubt whether she ever crossed paths with any sister of yours, Rivington, although her daughter married a man with some or another connection to respectable people so it’s not out of the question.”
Mrs. Durbin was Mrs. Wraxhall’s mother. Jack was impressed that Rivington didn’t show so much as a flicker of interest when the name was mentioned.
“The vicar’s sister, Miss Ingleby, died last year, quite suddenly,” Peale continued. “He’s been at sixes and sevens since then with no one to keep his house, but that’s neither here nor there. Let’s see, who else is there? There’s Lady de Vere but I think she and Sir John spend so much time in London your sister would simply call on them herself rather than foist the job on you. And I suppose it could be Mrs. Lewis,” he added with obvious doubt. “She’s a gentlewoman, but her husband, Hector Lewis, is one of the mill owners near Dewsbury. Which sounds very sordid, believe me I know, but they’re quite rich and one never knows.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for a world where mill owners ran free among the gentry.
Hector Lewis was the man who wrote the letters that were stolen from Mrs. Wraxhall. Once again Jack was impressed with Rivington’s sangfroid.
“It has to be one of them, I daresay.” Rivington swirled the ale in his glass. “After all, how many ladies can a village this size possibly hold?”
When Peale took his leave a few minutes later Jack looked closely at his companion. “You lie much better than I would have thought.” As he said it, he didn’t know whether it was a compliment or an insult. And by the looks of things, neither did Rivington.
“Why are we starting with this Miss Barrow?” Oliver asked. Had they truly needed to choose the person who lived farthest from the inn? And why hadn’t he thought to use the curricle? He had hoped, against all reason, that walking in the countryside might be more manageable than walking in London, despite years of evidence that—contrary to what surgeons liked to advise—fresh air and a verdant setting in fact did nothing to ease his pain.
“Because she’s the first person your Mr. Peale mentioned.” Jack was silent for a few more paces. “Also because she was Mrs. Wraxhall’s governess until two years before her marriage.”
Oliver stopped walking and swung around to face Jack. He had known the identity of Mrs. Wraxhall’s likeliest confidante and hadn’t said anything about it? Oliver wasn’t under the impression that he was owed any information—this was Jack’s matter, not his. But still, he had liked the thought that this trip was, to some extent, a joint undertaking.
“How much more are you not telling me?” Oliver could almost taste the coldness of his tone.
“Heaps,” Jack said in an infuriatingly offhand manner that was all the more annoying since Oliver was looking for a reason to be uncivil.
“We were in the same carriage for days. You might have told me you knew where to find the lady’s governess, you know.” Even as he spoke he knew he was being petty—it wasn’t as if Oliver had been in a position to do anything with the information even if Jack had seen fit to tell him. He just didn’t like the sensation of having been kept in the dark, of not being trusted.
“But I didn’t know where to find her, not until half an hour ago, when your Mr. Peale said she lived in the village. My understanding was that she had found another post after Mrs. Wraxhall—Miss Durbin at the time—reached an age where she no longer required a governess. But for whatever reason, she returned to Pickworth, and now we’re going to see her.”
