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Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly
(Macbeth III.iii.17)
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MR. SHERRINGTON, TRUE to his word, paid several visits to James Gardiner. The two friends enjoyed many hours talking and laughing over port and cards at the Gardiner house on Gracechurch Street, and in kind, the Gardiner family dined several times at Sherrington’s townhouse in a more fashionable area of London. When garbed in his own clothing and tended by his valet, he was scarcely recognizable as the scruffy tramp who had darkened the Gardiners’ kitchen not so long before. He presided over his residence with a quiet elegance, his home reflecting his own neat and compact appearance. About forty years of age, light of step and slim of build, he seemed every inch the refined gentleman that he was.
The morning following the unsettling incident at the Gardiner Warehouses, Edward sent a message to Sherrington asking to meet, and was rewarded with an invitation to come after dinner. Unavoidable duties at court until eight o’clock, the message apologized. With this, Edward had to be satisfied.
“There are no developments, Edward,” Sherrington said with a sigh as the two sat in the well-appointed study. “I have, at George Darcy’s request, sent men seeking news of Mrs. Grant, but as of now, Percival Grant is merely—to outer appearances, at least—managing his late brother’s estate whilst awaiting the return of the wayward son. We are, to be certain, watching his every move more carefully, but until he acts in such a way as to require intervention, there is little we can do.”
“I believe that Grant is now in London,” Edward grimaced.
Sherrington returned a small nod. “I had only now heard from the men watching him. My duties at court yesterday and today prevented this news from reaching me before this morning, for which I can only apologise to you. Yes. He appears not to have caused any difficulty, and until he does something we can only observe. How do you know this?”
“He came by my warehouse yesterday. I did not know it was he—I still do not know for certain—but when my stupid brain sorted through the morass, it was the only solution that made sense.” He quickly outlined the strange encounter over yellow silk.
Sherrington rose and crossed to the blazing fire, which he contemplated for some moments. “‘Tis a good thing you did not discern his purpose before he departed. You are, son, an open man who expects no deceit and who is unadept at executing it. He would have known your purpose in a moment.”
“So I have been told.” Edward closed his eyes and groaned. “This is why Lynnie will not reveal her full circumstances to me.”
Sherrington emitted a half chuckle and smiled reassuringly. “I understand, my boy. You want nothing more than to be able to court the girl. Yes, I know these things. Rest assured. With ambition such as Percival Grant has, he will show his hand sooner or later, and we will be ready to catch him. You will have your girl soon enough.”
“And if he comes again?”
“I will have my men present to warn you, so you may declare yourself unavailable for consultation with him. But I do not believe he will attempt a second visit. He has the information he hoped to get from you—or so he thinks.”
“I thank you for your continued interest, Mr. Sherrington.”
“Think nothing of it. I am doing this for George Darcy, but knowing that you will benefit from my adventures gladdens my heart and makes the toil a pleasure. Now, let me call for some tea and sweets. My chef has been working on a new set of pastries learned from a French colleague and wishes to display his masterworks.”
And so the weeks passed, with visits to and from Sherrington, and clandestine meetings with Lynnie. The letters stopped coming, but since meetings in person were so much more pleasurable than receiving mail—one cannot hold and kiss paper, after all—Edward did not object. Those stolen moments with his beloved were more dear to him than any volume of wittily written missives.
Edward was never quite at ease, knowing that Percival Grant was in London, and Matthew seemed to pick up on his master’s concern. His erstwhile zeal for exploring London had dissolved into cautious prudence, and he shuffled along with his hat pulled low over his eyes and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shapeless coat.
He refused to admit to worry, however, or to an aversion to the weather. Indeed, young Matthew seemed to think very little of London’s excuse of a winter. He scoffed at the shivering denizens of Town, joking about how this sort of weather would be considered a mere nip in the air in Derbyshire, where men were used to real winters. He was talking about the one winter he had spent with the old master up in Scotland when Edward reminded him of a fate worse than Derbyshire in February.
“Lad, you do not know winter until you’ve spent a cold year in the northern colonies!” Edward teased right back. In Nova Scotia, where I was at school, we saw snow, accumulating to many feet deep, for seven months of the year one time. The woolen coats we so proudly sell here would not begin to cut the cold, and those beaver hats that all the toffs so proudly perch on their heads are molded for warmth and not fashion there on the other side of the Atlantic.
“Matthew, lad,” Edward guffawed, “I will gladly take your Derbyshire winter if I never have to see another in Halifax. I’ve been home for three years now, and I believe some of that snow is still not melted.”
Instead of laughing at the jibe, though, Matthew’s face took on an expression of alarm.
“Is it true? Is it really that cold there?”
“Aye, lad.”
“Are there fierce beasts, like wolves and bears? I read once about white bears from the North Pole that eat people...”
“I lived there for three years, lad, and never met a single person eaten by a wolf or bear.”
“But the master’s son...”
“Ah, I see the cause of your alarm. Yes, winters in Nova Scotia are indeed a fierce phenomenon, but be easy, lad. These are modern times. Buildings are heated with good coal stoves, and the men there are properly dressed for the climate. Your master’s son will not be touting Halifax as the next sea-bathing resort, but he will survive the winter unscathed. Unless, of course, he takes up with French trappers or lumberjacks in New Brunswick.”
“Might he have done, Mr. Gardiner?” Real concern showed on the boy’s soft face.
“No, Matt, do be easy. Halifax is a civilized place. There is a mighty citadel there now, refortified against Bonaparte, should he try to cross the seas, and against the rebels to the south, and more men there have education than they do here in England. The French trappers and loggers are far from those very British shores, rest assured. Of more concern are the Americans, and then only because of their revolutionary tendencies. Your master’s son will come to no harm there.”
Matthew was, as always when confronted with talk of the Nova Scotia colonies, not quite settled in mind, but he seemed to relax a little and assured Edward that he was determined not to think too much on it.
Then gradually, imperceptibly at first, winter began to lighten its hold on London. The days were slightly less gloomy, the air slightly less foggy and damp. The mud became more liquid than solid, and, after a while, patches of dirt could be seen where mere days ago there had been only a cover of grimy snow. Eventually early spring crocuses began to poke their tentative heads through the thawing earth, and people began appearing once more in the parks and streets, being outdoors for enjoyment rather than necessity as the sun grew stronger and the air milder.
In mid-March, to everybody’s delight, Frederick Dyson and Gwendolyn Lancaster announced their engagement. Edward had known the happy news for a few days before the couple made their betrothal known at a large dinner party at the Dysons’ townhome. In truth, when Frederick had appeared at his doorstep late one evening the previous week, with a smile wide and bright enough to rival the moon, Edward had no doubts as to the cause of his friend’s felicity.
“I see I am to wish you joy,” he said in way of a greeting, as soon as Frederick was announced.
“Good evening to you too, Edward,” Frederick beamed. “Am I to offer you no surprises?”
“With a face that full of elation, none indeed. Well done, my friend. Gwen is charming, and her mother is not unpleasant, and that is as good an omen as one can expect for the future. I suspect you will be disgustingly happy. When am I to congratulate the bride?”
Frederick chuckled. “We might be by the warehouse tomorrow morning, just browsing at fabrics for no real reason, don’t you know, old man. If we do saunter by, I will presume to waste some of your time with a social call, if I may.”
“Indeed you may, Fred. I would be delighted.”
Frederick now reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a note written on fine card. “I am also here to invite you and your delightful parents to a dinner, hosted by my estimable mother, on Sunday next. I do hope you are able to attend. I believe there may be some news to be heard there.” He grinned again and presented the card to his friend with a remarkable flourish.
“I must, of course, confirm with Mother, but I am certain we will be there. I would not miss this, Fred. I am very happy for you.” He had said these words with complete sincerity, hoping in the recesses of his heart, that he would soon follow his friend on the path to matrimony.
Since the engagement, and the optimism attendant on it, Edward felt his heart lighten with the morning sky. There had been no further encounters with Percival Grant, and surely, now that spring was coming back to England, the man would act and be caught, and all would be well once more. Once the evil uncle was under guard, his niece could throw off her veil of secrecy, and she and Edward could court in public. Furthermore, every passing day brought Lynnie closer to the age of one-and-twenty, when she would no longer need permission to marry. How Edward longed for that time when they would be free from this shadow, and he saw, with every morning that the dawn rose earlier, his hopes coming closer to fruition.
––––––––
THE IDES OF MARCH HAD come and gone, and with the passing of that dire day, Edward felt his spirits lighten even more. He no longer glanced around each corner before stepping across the invisible boundary, no longer wondered what Percival Grant had wanted with him. The events of that freezing winter day had coalesced into some sort of sense in his mind: Grant had heard that he had initiated some inquiries and had come to ascertain for himself whether Edward was at all involved in the disappearance of the man’s niece. Satisfied—due to Edward’s slow thinking, no less—that the merchant had no particular knowledge to impart, the man had departed to search other realms. Of course he had not bothered Edward again; he was too canny to waste his efforts where he knew there would be no gain.
He whistled some air from a popular opera as he stood in the alleyway by the loading doors to his warehouse, watching the workers unload yet another shipment of beautiful fabrics from the heavy wagon. The silks had come in from India—rich and luxurious in the hand, like melted butter, the colours shone with brilliant iridescence in the warmth of the spring sunshine. Some lady, Edward mused as his lips caressed the next verse to his aria, would reckon herself quite fortunate to be clad in such magnificent cloth. He wondered, for a moment, if Lynnie’s colouring would lend itself to such strong tones, or if she would be set off to best advantage in subtler or quieter colours. The strange detail of never having seen his beloved’s face seemed almost commonplace now, and he thought little of it, except at times like this when the inanity of the matter made him chuckle.
The workers completed their task and, as was the established practice, set off inside to do an official inventory of the shipment with the man Edward entrusted to such duties. The large horses were content to stand outside whilst they waited, basking in the sunshine. Only a single loop of rope tied to a post kept them from wandering, but neither of the two beasts seemed at all inclined to move. Edward took a few steps further down the alleyway and surveyed the scene. It was one of prosperity and contentment, and he felt, at this moment, very pleased with his place in the world.
He closed his eyes and turned his face to the warmth of the sun, reveling in the hopes of vernal renewal.
A slam wrenched him from his reveries. Somebody had closed the large doors to the warehouse. It had not been the wind for the air was still, nor did he see anybody around to have done so. He started for the doorway to investigate when he noticed that the rope securing the two muscled horses had been loosed from the post and that the previously calm beasts seemed unsettled. Their ears twitched and their necks stretched high; they must have heard something.
Then a crack came, seemingly from nowhere, and the beasts began to bolt. One gave a loud whinny which his partner echoed, and they dashed forward and at a great speed down the narrow alleyway, directly towards Edward.
Edward turned and ran, hearing the massive beasts closing in behind him. The alleyway was extremely narrow at this point, with barely enough space for the dray to pass. The horses would surely be upon him in seconds, and would trample him into the hard stone underfoot. Blood throbbed in his temples as he threw himself forward at speeds he never imagined himself capable of attaining. And still the horses pounded closer and closer. The end of the alley was too far for him to achieve, and already he could feel the rush of air as the great snorting beasts hurled themselves ever forward. Was this to be the end? Was he to perish under those heavy hooves on this warm and bright day? What would become of his parents? What of Lynnie? He simply refused to die!
With a final burst of energy, borne of some reserve he had never before known, he pressed himself to redouble his speed, but his foot caught on an uneven stone in the roadway and he felt himself begin to fall. How ignoble a death! Poets would not write of his demise. But then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, something he had seen almost every day but never noticed: a low ditch right at the edge of the wall to his side. There was not room for him to press against the wall itself, but lying in the ditch, the bolting beasts might well miss him. He hit the rough surface of the alley and rolled sideways will every ounce of strength until he lay tight along the wall, tucked into the trench and just below the level of the roadway. Inches from his nose, he saw the powerful hooves thunder past him, grinding clumps of sod into powder and crushing stray seeds and husks of wheat that had passed through on their way down towards further establishments. Dust rose in great clouds as the horses tore along in their desperation, until nothing was left but the tremble of the earth and the noise of their passage.
He was alive! He was bruised and filthy, but alive. Whatever had happened to occasion such a reaction from two beasts he knew so well? They were strong but placid creatures, better suited for the slow and steady draw of a laden wagon than for the nervous speed of a racecourse. Never had he seen one of them even slightly nervous, but now both had bolted, and had nearly killed him in the process.
He hoisted himself from his unlikely haven and stared back down the alleyway towards to back of his warehouse, from which direction he had come. The loose rope lay flaccid on the ground, and he recalled as clearly as if hearing it afresh the sharp clap of noise that had spooked the horses. Was it a pistol shot? That would account for the desperation of the horses to flee. But what sort of man would deliberately cause the two horses to shy in such a tight alleyway as this? It was almost as if...
As if someone wished to kill him!