The Highwayman's Letter, page 12
Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat yet again as Sir Leonard shot him a suspicious glance and stepped toward Joanna, his arm out. “He can lead the way, then.”
Joanna suppressed a sigh, glancing at Mr. Sinclair with apology written on her face. He only smiled and let go of her arm. She had been enjoying his escort, and the prospect of trading it for Sir Leonard’s was a lowering—and irritating—one. She had no doubt that Sir Leonard was correct in his assumption that Lady Elkins would have wished for him to escort her, if only to make it clear to Joanna that she regarded her reputation as precarious in the extreme. Naturally, that made Joanna want to stand her ground. But she tamped down her pride and accepted Sir Leonard’s arm.
Whatever picture had been presented by Joanna and Mr. Sinclair arm-in-arm and Sarah behind them, Joanna couldn’t help but feel that the sight of their party now—Mr. Sinclair leading the way, followed by Joanna and Sir Leonard, followed by Sarah—made them even more conspicuous.
Sir Leonard was only doing what he had been taught to do by his mother, but Joanna felt the familiar grinding of annoyance at the meddling. Lady Elkins would have a report of the entire occurrence, of course, and who could tell what she would do with it?
Well, if she was to hear of it, Joanna would at least give her something worth being put out over.
“We were just speaking of Lady Barton’s masquerade,” she said as they followed Mr. Sinclair around the corner and onto Borough Walls.
“Mother says masquerades are the invention of harlots,” Sir Leonard said in the tone of someone offering up a morsel of information that couldn’t help but interest everyone.
Joanna’s brows shot up, and she glanced at Mr. Sinclair in time to see him put a fist to his mouth, as if to stop a laugh.
“I imagine Mrs. Millard would agree with her,” Joanna said.
Mr. Sinclair laughed but managed to turn it into yet another cough.
“You should see someone about that cough, Mr. Sinclair,” Joanna said with a teasing glance, “or perhaps the waters would do you good.”
Mr. Sinclair glanced over his shoulder. “’Ye’re too kind, ma’am. I’ll look into it.”
“Ah yes,” Sir Leonard said, “Mrs. Millard would undoubtedly agree with Mother on the subject of masquerades.
“I take it I shall not be seeing you or your mother there, then? How disappointing.”
“You intend to go?” Sir Leonard looked at her through wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Joanna said brightly. “I do so love a masquerade!” She tried to sound as wistful as Frances. She knew she was being unwise and proud, but she couldn’t stop herself. If she had had any indication that Sir Leonard wished to marry her of his own volition, that he might show the least bit of resistance to his mother rather than being guided, as he was in everything, by her, she would not say such things.
Until then, though, it was beginning to feel very much as though she was vying for the hand of Lady Elkins rather than that of her son, and while Joanna’s good sense was strong enough to withstand marrying a figure as eccentric as Sir Leonard for the sensibleness of the connection, it was also strong enough to warn her against marrying someone with such a domineering mother. If she was even to consider pursuing the connection, she needed to be certain Sir Leonard had enough backbone to stand up to his mother when it was merited. She could not marry someone without a mind of his own.
“What a shame for everyone there to be deprived of your company.” Joanna paused. “That is, unless your mother intends to stay home while you yourself attend? Perhaps you do not share her feelings on the matter of masquerades?”
Sir Leonard blinked, stuttering, as though it had never occurred to him that he might have feelings on any subject which diverged from his mother’s.
Joanna pressed the advantage his silence provided. “I had thought to see you dressed as Apis mellifera.”
“Apis mellifera, yes,” he said dazedly, the intrigue growing in his unfocused eyes. “Wings, antennae, a large-eyed mask.” His brows knit. “Though, I would not have the time to do justice to the magnificent creatures.”
Mr. Sinclair glanced back at Joanna with a smile, and she felt a prick of guilt for encouraging Sir Leonard to pursue something so contrary to his mother’s wishes. But a masquerade would be a harmless thing for Sir Leonard, and that was only if he had enough gumption to follow his interest in the face of his mother’s displeasure. She would undoubtedly lay his rebellion at Joanna’s feet, but Joanna was becoming impatient with the expectations of Lady Elkins. Perhaps it was better she know now that Joanna would not countenance her husband being controlled by his mother.
“Just around this corner,” Mr. Sinclair said as they turned from Avon Street into a small courtyard.
Joanna looked around at the tall buildings that surrounded it. She had been so intent on the conversation with Sir Leonard that she had stopped noticing where they were. She had never seen this part of Bath, and perhaps there was a reason for it. The ground was paved, but weeds grew up between the cracks and puddles had settled into the places where the stones had broken. There were no doors, only windows, most of which were boarded up, and an old statue sat in the center of the yard.
Joanna glanced at Mr. Sinclair, who was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and chagrin. She realized now why he had cleared his throat when she had told Sir Leonard her reason for seeking out De Blays Close. Not only were there no doors on this side of the building—and hence no addresses—it was not an area fit for a friend of hers, however much a figment of the imagination that friend might be.
The corner of Mr. Sinclair’s mouth trembled slightly as he pulled a face, apparently divining her thoughts.
She raised her brows, hoping he understood the gesture to mean this is it?
He nodded, bringing out his bell with one hand and jingling his coin purse with the other hand. “I have our forces at the ready.”
Joanna tried to stop a smile and gave a nod before looking around again. Had she mistaken the direction the Paladin had written? No, she was certain she had not. Had he chosen it to tease her? Or was there a clue she was meant to find?
“Was there any other direction given than De Blays Close?” Mr. Sinclair asked.
“No.” She pulled the letter from her pocket, glancing at the back again. She squinted, holding the letter closer. There was a small, smudged number before the street name. “That is, yes. A number four, I believe.”
“You must have mistaken the direction,” Sir Leonard said to Mr. Sinclair. “This is no place anyone would think to live.”
“Anyone except the people who do live here.” Joanna pointed to the line of laundry hanging from one of the only unboarded windows above. The door must have been on the other side of the building, which made it all the stranger that the Paladin should have given this specific address.
Did the highwayman live in one of the rooms that looked over the courtyard? And if so, why would he not have given the proper direction? She couldn’t imagine he would have done such a thing by accident. He was too careful, too cunning for that.
She started making her way around the square, looking for anything that might offer a clue. Surely, the four had some significance, but what would it be? Could he have meant the fourth window? The fourth wall? But, if so, which wall or window would be considered number one?
Mr. Sinclair was watching Joanna curiously, questions reflected in his eyes that neither of them could give voice to in the presence of Sir Leonard. She glanced at Sarah, who stood just inside the alley, hands clasped before her, eyes dutifully cast at nothing but the stones she stood on. Sir Leonard was crouched down, inspecting one of the flowering weeds in the pavement.
Joanna walked over to Mr. Sinclair, standing right beside him so that their shoulders touched and holding up the letter. “That is a four, is it not?”
He leaned in for a closer look and put a hand on the edge of the letter. Their hands were touching, and Joanna glanced over at him, but he was squinting at the writing.
He stood straight. “Decidedly a four, miss.”
She nodded and turned to face the entrance to the close. Her gaze settled on the statue that stood between. She tilted her head, trying to make out the shape from behind. Curiosity piqued, she walked toward and around it, lifting her head to look at the figure. It was a knight attired in armor, one arm raised, ostensibly with a sword, though one couldn’t be certain, as both arms had fallen victim to some force or another—one stopped just above the elbow, while the other had only a shoulder.
Joanna looked to the placard on the pedestal. The inscription was in Latin, which Joanna had never learned beyond a halfhearted attempt one winter, but she was familiar enough with Roman numerals, at least, to recognize the two dates included. She could only assume one was the date the statue was erected, while the other must be the date the knight depicted had performed whatever feats of bravery had earned him the distinction of a statue in an obscure courtyard. That second date was April 4, 1444.
Joanna traced the numerals in the inscription then looked up at the knight, a smile growing on her lips as realization dawned on her. Four. The fourth day of the fourth month of the year 1444.
“Bravo, Paladin,” she said softly.
Mr. Sinclair walked up beside her. “Were ye congratulatin’ this armless knight?”
She laughed and checked to make certain Sir Leonard was not paying them any heed. “No. I was congratulating—begrudgingly, mind you—the Paladin on his wit. You can see, no doubt, why he selected this particular place”—she gestured up at the knight—“to send me to? The conclusion I am meant to draw is quite obvious, despite the fact that I cannot read what this good knight—or paladin, perhaps—did to be immortalized as a statue.”
“In memory of the bravery and chivalry of Sir Richard de Blays, who rescued thirteen people from a fire in this place on April 4, 1444.” Mr. Sinclair chuckled. “I think the gesture might have meant more to Sir Richard if his statue had been put where it’d be seen by more than the passin’ pigeons.” He waved a hand, and the bird sitting atop the statue’s head fluttered away.
Joanna looked over at Mr. Sinclair. “You read Latin?”
His head swung around, and she could have sworn there was dismay in his eyes, but she must have imagined it, for it quickly turned to amusement as he shook his head. “Did I have ye convinced?”
“You did,” Joanna said, and she glanced at the placard again.
“I don’t read Latin, but that’s more or less what it says. I’ve passed this statue a hundred times, and a man once read the inscription to me.”
Sir Leonard stood abruptly, looking up at the gray sky. “A shame. Not enough sun or flowers to coax the bees here.”
“No, I imagine not,” Joanna said. “Neither do I think there is enough to coax my friend here. She must have mistaken the direction.”
Sir Leonard nodded. “Undoubtedly. But no matter. Mother and I will gladly offer our counsel to your friend. Mother says one’s direction is second in importance only to one’s family name.”
Joanna offered a civil smile and took his offered arm, well aware that, at this rate, it would be Joanna’s family name alone keeping Lady Elkins from demanding her son address his attentions to some other eligible young woman.
Mr. Sinclair again led the way back toward the center of town, while Joanna tried her best to respond to Sir Leonard’s conversation with due interest and politeness as he prattled on about the concerning lack of honey bees this spring and how he might manage to create a bee costume in time for the masquerade.
Her mind, though, was fixed on the Paladin and how she might gain the upper hand again, for she could not deny that the statue of the knight had been an unexpected and well-played card, particularly after all the times she had taken pains to cast doubt upon the nickname he had been given. How would she manage to meet—or exceed—his move with a witty one of her own?
Perhaps Mr. Sinclair would have an idea for her. She glanced at him just ahead, wishing again that she could trade Sir Leonard’s escort for his. At this rate, she was unlikely to have the chance to converse with him again.
At least she still had the quizzing glass. She could lure him with that if she was fortunate.
As they reached the abbey, Joanna feared Sir Leonard would be content with nothing less than escorting her home, but he seemed not to have expected their expedition to take as long as it had, and he was becoming visibly anxious on behalf of Lady Elkins as they approached Cheap Street. His concern for his mother secretly touched Joanna, perhaps because she felt the woman undeserving of it. Or perhaps she was simply being too hard on Lady Elkins. A mother couldn’t be blamed for wanting the best for her son; Joanna was merely uncertain where the woman found her lacking.
“Mother says nothing is more vexing than to be made to worry over someone who is in perfectly good health,” he said, bidding them farewell at the crossroads of High Street and Cheap Street.
“Is he the one in perfectly good health doing the vexing, or is it his mother?” Joanna asked as she and Mr. Sinclair watched him scurry off toward the Pump Room.
He offered her his arm with a smile. “I’ve a bone to pick with ye, ma’am.”
She looked over at him. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” He looked down at her, and his smile had turned into an exaggerated frown. “Five-and-twenty years?”
She wrinkled her brow, unsure what he meant.
“Pardon me,” he said. “More than five-and-twenty years. Ye told Sir Leonard I’d been employed as a letter carrier in Bath for more than twenty-five years.”
She smiled at him. “What of it?”
He scoffed. “Just how old do ye believe I am? Raised alongside Mrs. Millard, perhaps? Or do ye think I was wieldin’ this bell”—he rang it lightly—“and countin’ out change for people at the tender age of three?”
She let out a laugh. “I was merely trying to convince Sir Leonard beyond any doubt of your capabilities.”
“Perhaps ye should’ve said fifty years, then. Apparently five-and-twenty didn’t impress him.”
“I doubt whether a hundred years would have done the trick. I challenged his knowledge of Bath—and offended his mother’s sense of propriety.” She adjusted her grip on his arm, vaguely aware that her own father, too, might be less than thrilled to find her on such cozy terms with a letter carrier.
It was a relief to be on the arm of Mr. Sinclair again, though. If only she found it as easy to converse with Sir Leonard, perhaps she would have been able to swallow Lady Elkins’ conduct more easily. Why could Sir Leonard not have had the consequence and wealth of an Elkins and the personality of a letter carrier?
“Is yer sense of propriety offended, ma’am?” Mr. Sinclair asked, and his tone was more serious.
“Assuming I have such a sense?” she teased.
“I thought it was somethin’ people of your class were born with.”
She looked up at him. Was there a bite to the words, or had she imagined it? How did he regard people like her? “Perhaps I was born into the wrong class, then.”
If she was in possession of a functioning sense of propriety, would it not have been scandalized by welcoming a highwayman onto her terrace in her dressing gown? Surely, it would have set its foot down when she decided to go in search of the Paladin’s domicile. Or when she had pretended she meant to kiss him in order to remove his mask. Her cheeks grew warm at the memory, but it was not due to propriety that they did so.
“Why do ye say that, miss?” Mr. Sinclair asked, and he looked down at her with curiosity in his eyes, which were a blue almost dark enough to make them look brown from a distance.
“You have just accompanied me on a hare-brained expedition to seek out a highwayman. That does not speak particularly well of my sense of propriety, does it?”
He frowned in thought. “Nay, I suppose it doesn’t.”
She pinched her lips together and shot him a look.
He met it with a significant look of his own. “Neither does your shockin’ intention to attend this infamous masquerade. I’m fair scandalized, ma’am.”
She laughed but clenched her eyes shut, remembering the flare of pride that had made her state her plan to attend when she had explicitly told Mr. Sinclair the opposite only half an hour before. “I am a disgrace—that is the long and short of it. You should not only be scandalized but embarrassed to be seen with me, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Oh, that I am,” he said in a gruff voice with a frown on his brow. “’Tis more mortifyin’ than I can say for the man ringin’ a bell and acceptin’ greasy pennies from strangers to have an agreeable and beautiful companion on his arm.”
Joanna’s heart skipped suddenly, and her hold on him involuntarily tightened.
“Besides,” he continued, “if ye are a disgrace, at least ye’ll have the pleasure of seein’ Sir Leonard dressed as a bee, and that, I think is worth it. There are some benefits to disgrace, ye know.”
They stopped before the townhouse, and Joanna blinked. “I hadn’t realized we had made such quick progress.”
Mr. Sinclair smiled at her sympathetically. “Thank ye for lettin’ me accompany ye, Miss Carmichael. I’m sorry we didn’t have success.”
She shook her head. “It was silly of me to ever think he might have left the direction for any reason except to tease me.” She grimaced, then a thought occurred to her. “Mr. Sinclair, what would happen to a letter sent to De Blays Close?”
He looked at her for a moment before responding. “If there was no one there to receive it, ye mean?”
“Sir Richard de Blays, for example?” She laughed. “I think he should find that a bit difficult given the loss of his arms.”
Mr. Sinclair directed a chastising look at her. “Ye underestimate the revered Sir Richard, ma’am. But, to answer yer question, if a letter’s addressed to a direction which doesn’t exist, it’s returned to the post office.”
“Hm,” she said. Why would the Paladin bother providing a direction if a response would never reach him there? Why not simply leave the back blank? “And then what? Might he retrieve it there?”
