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SOMEWHERE IN THE COTSWOLD Hills
Friday, 17 August 1821
Seated within the fine Medley Park coach, accompanied by my young maid Tilda and my adorable new pet Little Georgie, I was also acutely aware of the masculine presence of my handsome companion Mr. Sheridan, as we skimmed through the English countryside on our way up to London. Since morning, the three of us had been traveling in companionable silence, each seemingly lost in our own thoughts. Because the worst disaster I had ever endured occurred less than twenty-four hours ago at Medley Park, I was still trying valiantly to thrust all remnants of terror from my mind; as well as almost everything else that had occurred during the fortnight I’d only just spent there.
How fortunate I was that Mr. Sheridan had appeared from out of nowhere to rescue me from certain death. Yet, again. The unsettling thoughts tumbling through my mind now caused another audible sigh to escape me. Seated beside me on the coach bench, one arm draped casually across the back of it, Mr. Sheridan turned to gaze down upon me, true concern for my welfare still evident in his dark eyes.
“To dismiss all the hurt and betrayal you feel will come easier in time,” he murmured. I smiled beneath the gentle squeeze of his gloved hand upon my shoulder, and was grateful again for this heroic man’s presence. “I shall have you safely back home in London before you know it, Miss Abbott.”
At the sound of our voices, Little Georgie, the precious black and white kitten Hannah had only just presented to me as a gift upon our departure this morning from Medley Park, lifted his furry head, one tiny black ear twitching. The kitten, curled up on Tilda’s lap across from me, blinked as he gazed about at the fresh new surroundings unfolding before him now.
Upon being presented with the sweet ball of fur, I had instantly christened the kitten Prince George, as a bit of a lark since Mr. Sheridan’s huge black stallion, now tethered to the rear of the coach, was called King George. My pronouncement had brought a grin to Mr. Sheridan’s lips, which warmed me. Yet, we’d got only a few miles down the road when both Tilda and I began to refer to the tiny baby as Little Georgie. I believe that name suits him far better, at least for now, as he is quite small.
I reached now to take my adorable new pet from Tilda. “You have had a good long nap, haven’t you, sweetheart. Come and give your mama a cuddle.”
Beside me, Mr. Sheridan’s dark head wagged. “You are not now, nor will you ever be, that animal’s mother, Miss Abbott. How on earth a mere kitten can transform an otherwise bright and clever young lady into a puddle of mush makes not a whit of sense to me.”
“But, the little darling has no mama. And, he clearly needs one. Just look at how sweet and trusting he is.” Cupping the kitten’s bottom, I held him up for my companion to see. “Were we to put him from the coach this minute and leave him to fend for himself, he would . . .”
“Make his own way in the world as have countless other feline offspring before him,” stated Mr. Sheridan before turning to gaze from the window at his side. Although I caught the twitch of his lips as he did so. To be sure, my strong, capable companion was taking delight in teasing me.
I snuggled the precious fluff of fur to my cheek. “Never fear, little one. I shall never abandon you. Never!”
I heard Mr. Sheridan’s feigned harrumph.
We settled down again, me absently stroking Little Georgie as the three of us again fell to gazing pensively from the coach window at the English countryside the coach was skimming past. It soon became apparent that we had left behind the flat green cultivated fields and were now entering the Cotswold Hills. The rising swells initially appeared purple in the distance but as we drew nearer and climbed higher, the shapes grew larger and rounder, and viewed through the thick cover of trees on either side of the narrow dirt road, appeared to be lush with foliage.
Turning round a bend, we approached a collection of cozy cottages nestled amongst the trees, the villagers having apparently chosen of a purpose to settle near the narrow stream that meandered through the area. The tranquil scene appeared so suddenly it came as a bit of a surprise. Our coach did not slow as it flew past the honey-coloured cottages, their walls and roofs all fashioned from pale ginger stones, no doubt, extracted from a nearby limestone quarry. I caught sight of villagers in faded garments trudging along the winding streets so intent upon one task or another that not even the pebbles and debris flying up from our carriage wheels was sufficient to arrest their notice.
Peering through the open window at my side, I caught a glimpse of an old Norman church to one side of the dusty road. Above it on the hillside, the slate rooftop of a rambling manor home came into view, both buildings looking as strong and sturdy now as they, no doubt, did hundreds of years ago when they were first put up. Moments later, we left behind the village whose name I never learned as we flew past the wooden sign on a post designating it far too quickly to decipher the faded letters. Gaining the open road again, we swiftly wound our way through cultivated fields in varying shades of green that climbed the sides of the hills whose rounded tops now formed the horizon. Clearly, we were heading deeper and deeper into the Cotswolds.
Around another bend I spotted a three-horse team being led onto a stubbly brown field, the sturdy horses trudging along in the dust, the driver beside them on foot, each making slow progress toward a wide stretch of uncut corn that looked red and ripe beneath the burning sun, no tall trees here to block the bright sunlight scorching the landscape.
How simple and peaceful life seemed here in the shadow of the hills, although I expect from the aspect of the inhabitants of these sleepy villages (and since morning we had passed a good many of them tucked into shady clearings) I rather expect the daily grind of sameness soon become predictable; even dull. I imagined that young girls like Tilda, seated across from me in the carriage, often wondered what could possibly lie ahead for them? Did the girls dream of escaping from the boredom of their lives, of traveling up to London or even Birmingham, where the excitement of new adventures might liven up their days, and perhaps even alter their lives forever?
Given the frenzied activity that Tilda and I had only just left behind at Medley Park, where each and every day was decidedly not dull, or predictable, a part of me did now rather yearn for at least a string of calm, sedate days free of dire threats and fearsome attempts upon my life.
A moment later, Mr. Sheridan addressed us in a serious tone, “Dusk will soon be upon us, ladies. We must decide where to pass the night.” After a slight pause, he added, “The cat can bed down in the mews with King George.”
“Georgie will do no such thing!” I protested. “He shall sleep with Tilda and me. You can bed down with King George.”
As we were all laughing good-naturedly, suddenly the entire carriage commenced to violently shudder. Amidst a volley of whinnies from the horses pulling the coach, and a deafening screech of alarm from King George tethered to the rear, the entire front half of the vehicle suddenly plunged from beneath us and crashed to the ground with a jolt.
“Oh-h!” Both Tilda and I screamed as she fell forward onto me.
Clutching Georgie to my breast, I reached a hand to prevent her from falling onto us whilst also attempting to right myself. Beside me, Mr. Sheridan had already flung open the carriage door and lurched from it to see what was amiss. With the door now hanging from its hinges, I peered out in time to see the coach driver pick himself up from the ground. He shook himself as if the shock of what had just taken place had robbed him of not only his balance but also his senses.
“Musta’ hit a pot hole, sir. Mebbe a rock, er a boulder, from them hills up there, cain’t rightly say which.”
Having already checked to see that King George hadn’t suffered a broken limb, Mr. Sheridan was now leading his stallion by the reins. He clung tightly to them even as he bent down to inspect the undercarriage of the coach. “Axel’s broken clean in two. Both front wheels have snapped off, one’s rolled away.” He rose. “Appears we’ve traveled as far as we can go today.”
“What ye’ gonna’ do now, sir?’
Not answering the driver’s query, Mr. Sheridan instead stepped to the coach door, it still hanging open, myself and Tilda peering out, me tightly clutching Georgie to my breast, everyone’s eyes wide with alarm.
“The coach is disabled, Miss Abbott. I’ll ride on ahead and secure accommodations for the night. You and Miss Tilda stay right here. I’ll not be gone long. Sun will be setting behind these hills soon. You’ll be safe. I’ll not be gone long,” he said again.
“Perhaps there was a roadside inn in that small village we just drove through,” I suggested.
“I don’t recall seeing one. At any rate, I’m not a man to retreat. Best press on and see what lies ahead. You ladies will be safe here. Driver’s a trifle shaken, but he appears unhurt. He’ll not bother you.”
With that, our capable protector Mr. Sheridan vaulted onto the back of his huge black stallion, causing the horse to prance sideways. Our eyes still round with fear, Tilda and I both watched as the strong gentleman held the reins taut. His huge horse gave a shake of its black mane and began to carefully pick its way through the mangled wreckage littering the road. Seconds later, Tilda and I heard the thunderous roar of hooves as King George carrying Mr. Sheridan on his back, galloped away from us.
“Ye’ think he’ll come back, miss?” Tilda asked anxiously.
“Of course, he will return. Mr. Sheridan is not one to abandon a damsel in distress, or in this case, two damsels . . . and a kitten.” I tried to sound cheerful as I cast another worried gaze from the still-opened coach door, which may or may not close properly now that the entire front half of the carriage was slanted perilously downward, something I expect would have the effect of throwing every part of the coach behind it off-kilter. My concern now was that our driver did not abandon us.
A moment later, Tilda again spoke. “D-Do you suppose Little Georgie would like to stretch his legs? I-I know I would.”
“I shouldn’t want him to run away,” I murmured, casting a worried gaze at the kitten. “Wait a moment. I’ve an idea.”
Because Tilda was now sitting on the bench beside me, I twisted to turn my back to her. “Undo the ribbon to my gown. I shall tie one end around Georgie’s neck and loop the other end about my wrist. That way, he cannot possibly scamper away from us.”
After doing so, Tilda and I both agreed that Georgie looked quite fetching with a pink ribbon tied around his neck, the ends of which I had fashioned into a proper bow. We both alighted from the carriage and once on the ground, I cautiously set the kitten down. He took only a few steps before squatting to do his business and when done, I scooped him up again; then Tilda and I commenced to inspect the broken carriage.
Since there was nothing neither she nor I could do to alter matters, we soon crawled back up inside the wreckage and settled down to await Mr. Sheridan’s return.
In what seemed like a good long while, long after the sun had vanished behind the purple hills now looming like eerie shadows on either side of us, we were both overjoyed to hear the sound of approaching horse’s hooves . . . although the familiar noise was accompanied by a persistent squeak and a thump-thump-thump of . . . something else.
Tilda and I clambered down from the teetering coach and both stood anxiously gazing toward the approaching horse and rider. Trailing along behind was a rickety cart balanced on a pair of large, mostly round, wooden wheels.
Flinging himself to the ground, long strides carried Mr. Sheridan forward. “We must make haste to get your things, and both of you, into the cart, ladies. A storm is brewing just beyond the crest of those hills. We’d best get you sheltered before the heavens open up and drown us all.”
He turned to speak to our driver who, in his absence, had settled down for a nap beneath a sturdy old oak by the side of the road. The noise of Mr. Sheridan returning had roused the man, and he now stood dusting himself off as Mr. Sheridan relayed to him the particulars regarding the repair of the carriage. When he’d concluded, he and the driver both set to unloading all our luggage from the top of the coach and into the wobbly wooden cart. Tilda and I, and Georgie, were the last to be settled inside it.
“I fear it will be a bumpy ride, ladies; so hang on and I’ll attempt to get you safely to the inn before the rain drenches everyone. Including the cat.” He cast a sidelong look at Little Georgie. “I see you’ve dandied him up with a . . . fetching pink cravat. Splendid.”
I grinned and was pleased to note Mr. Sheridan’s lips twitching once more before he flung himself up and onto his mount’s back.
“I don’t think the mister cares much for Georgie,” Tilda whispered as the cart rumbled forward.
“On the contrary. I daresay he is only pretending to dislike my baby.” Stroking Little Georgie’s soft back, I recalled that in Margate, where I had initially made Mr. Sheridan’s acquaintance, he had harbored no ill-will towards Aunt Helen’s orange cat Pansy, who had accompanied me everywhere.
“Did the mister tell you where we’s a-headed now?”
“He said he had secured accommodations for us at an inn in a village up ahead called Middlewych.”
Tilda’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no, miss! Not there!” She drew back in horror.
“Why, whatever is the trouble, Tilda? Is there something . . .?”
“There’s witches in Middlewych! A whole coven of ‘em. That’s why it’s called Middle-wych. Ever’one knows that, miss. Oh, dear!” She flung frightened looks over both shoulders as if she feared the entire coven might suddenly appear out of the darkness, flying alongside us on their broomsticks whilst casting deadly spells right and left.
“I am certain everything will be all right, Tilda. Perhaps the storm will keep the witches at home tonight. Everyone knows that witches dislike getting wet,” I fabricated.
“They . . . they do?” She looked skeptical.
I nodded. “Water renders their powers . . . useless. Which is why witches . . . never bathe. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh-h-h.” My frightened little maid frowned.
“Mustn’t fret. We shall depart for London just as soon as the carriage is repaired. Perhaps on the morrow. If not, then surely on the day after.”
