Secondhand Charm Read online

  “We had occasion to witness last night the quick thinking and resource of one of these young ladies,” the king said, and then it was my turn to blush.

  “Your families have fostered your studies, have they not?” the king asked us. We nodded.

  “Are either of you betrothed, at your young ages?”

  Priscilla’s mouth opened. She shook her head. My face grew very warm. What could this mean? From the corner of my eye I saw Rosie Willis, arm in arm with her beau, and seated behind them, Aidan Moreau, watching me.

  “We are convinced that a village lacking schools lacks hope, and a kingdom without learning cannot thrive,” the king said. “This blessed sister is to be commended. We are pleased to announce a scholarship for your top prize winner at the Royal University in Chalcedon.”

  Priscilla’s eyes opened wide, and not altogether with delight. I closed mine quickly. University? Priscilla? Please, do not let me envy my dear friend.

  Mayor Snow leaped to his feet and applauded. “Such an honor for Maundley!” he cried.

  King Leopold stroked his chin, then turned to me suddenly. “Maundley’s school,” he said, “is clearly superior to most like it in the provinces. Therefore, to win an honorable mention here is akin to taking the top prize elsewhere. You are to be congratulated, young lady.”

  My head filled with buzzing. Somehow I remembered to curtsy, bowing low.

  When I rose, the king took my hand. “Would you also like to attend University?”

  It took me a moment to hear and understand.

  Had my soul and body had come unhinged?

  I forgot how to speak. I glanced at Grandfather, whose face was a mask.

  “Yes, please. Your Majesty,” my voice said, before my brain could intervene. “I would.”

  Priscilla’s eyes were wide. She reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  His eyes twinkled. “Then so you shall.”

  I wanted to scream, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to throw my arms around the king’s neck and kiss his chestnut-bearded cheek. Perhaps the good luck charm restrained me from doing those things.

  The good luck charm … ?

  Oh, my.

  Chapter 9

  All of Maundley, or so it seemed, turned out to wave good-bye to Aidan, Priscilla, her maiden aunt Charlotte Jessop, and me on Tuesday next, as we waited for the coach for Fallardston. Aidan would accompany us back, but Miss Jessop was our official chaperone.

  The coachman reined his horses, and a couple climbed down from the coach and entered the Galloping Goose. Aidan lashed our parcels to the carriage, alongside the daily post.

  I wasn’t looking forward to long days in a hot coach, but Grandfather insisted I not go by ship up the coastline to Chalcedon from Fallardston. “There are storms at sea, and you can’t swim,” was his objection. Even Widow Moreau backed him on that one. She hated the sea. I could humor him. It was the least I could do for him, since he was letting me go.

  There were tearful adieus from Widow Moreau, Sister Claire, and Letty and Hannah Croft, who came with baby Brom. How could I leave them behind? Others I didn’t mind leaving so much. Matthew Dunwoody and Roger Thomas and several of their mates were there. They had dropped by so often, both to congratulate me on my scholarship and urge me not to take it, that Grandfather began hollering if they came more than twice a day. I couldn’t go outdoors without tripping over nosegays of flowers, and I couldn’t walk to town without them arguing over holding my basket. Even Rosie Willis’s beau winked at me once.

  And those weren’t the only strange doings this last week. My chickens had gone from laying one egg a day, if the mood suited them, to three and even four. Grandfather’s final kettle of pickles, which I’d helped him bottle, filled twice as many jars as it ought to have. And the raccoon that had troubled my kitchen garden these last three seasons packed up and moved to greener pastures. I’d taken to blaming all these events, in jest, on my gypsy charms.

  The crowd of lads swirled around me until Aidan shouldered his way through with a heavy trunk and they were forced to step back.

  And then I had to take my leave of Grandfather.

  I felt I hadn’t stopped saying good-bye to him since Saint Bronwyn’s Day. Now that the time had come to part, I felt spent, with neither words nor emotions left to convey. He planted a whiskery kiss on my cheek, then retreated into the crowd. I wished I’d done better, but it was too late to rush after him now. Good-byes had to end somewhere. I climbed into the dark coach.

  Priscilla’s maiden aunt was already there. No one seemed desperate to delay her.

  Charlotte Jessop was soft of body and hard of jaw. A pewter-colored cap was pinned to her steely hair, which was pulled tightly off her forehead. She sat against a window fanning her face.

  I sat and observed the grimy windows and the dank smell of mildew and spilled luncheons. Stiff, cracked leather seats were nothing like the king’s plush carriages.

  Outside Prissy clung to her mother’s and father’s necks. At last the coachman bawled that he would leave without her, and her father managed to stuff her into the carriage. Just when we thought we were all comfortable, another body appeared in the door. It was the man we’d seen exiting the coach, followed by his companion. Now we’d be six, wedged like twin calves at an udder. Miss Jessop joined us on our side, while the man and woman sat by Aidan.

  The door closed. Release levers squealed. Horses stamped. And then the coach moved forward, tossing me back against my seat. I craned my neck for one last glimpse of Grandfather. He seemed small and pale amid the throng of less abandoned people.

  Then the coach turned around a bend in the road, and he was gone.

  And the impossible moment I’d thought of ever since Saint Bronwyn’s Day was finally here. We were on our way to Chalcedon.

  I heard a hiccup beside me. Priscilla fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Poor girl. It was hard for her to leave her parents. Aidan looked away, but Miss Jessop was less tactful.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she snapped. “It’ll be a right miserable journey if you can’t so much as ride to the signpost for Maundley without wailing like a sick baby.”

  Prissy’s cheeks flushed with shame. She kept her eyes lowered but glanced toward our fellow passengers. They took no notice of her embarrassment. They seemed intent on sleep.

  The man was wiry and lean of build, with a close-shorn scalp. Crawling up from under his ill-fitting collar were a host of dark markings working up his throat and around his jaw. Tattoos! I knew it was only pigment, but their effect was chilling.

  His wrists were also decorated with tattoos, but his hands startled me. Instead of healthy brown flesh, his hands were mottled, waxy white and gray, with slick, shiny ropelike scars. Burns. He looked like he’d fallen hands-first into raging coals.

  I began thinking of all I’d read about the treatment of burns, until I looked at his face again. His lips had that same scarred gloss to them, and very little beard grew around his mouth.

  It was then that I realized, with an awkward start, that his lady companion was not asleep, but watching me as I studied her scarred man. Her dark-lidded eyes smoldered with mockery. She made a flicking gesture in my direction with her finger and thumb, as if I were an insect. Her fingers were long and thin, with sharp nails and tightly bound muscles under pallid skin.

  It would be a cruel day, trapped in this close carriage, bouncing wretchedly over every bump, that woman’s hateful stare burning me. We wouldn’t reach Fallardston until late afternoon, where we’d lodge at an inn, then cross the Ladon River by ferry and continue on to Chalcedon by another coach. I fingered my little pouch of money. It was all I had for food and passage, tied to a rawhide thong around my neck with my gypsy charms. My pendant with the king’s seal, which granted me admittance to University, I’d pinned to the inside of my dress.

  Charlotte Jessop spent the morning complaining Priscilla was crowding her. Priscilla practically sat in my lap to avoid her. We all felt r
elieved when Miss Jessop’s chin drooped onto her breastbone and she began to snore.

  I offered an apple to Priscilla and tossed one to Aidan. Faster than a frog catching bugs, the strange woman snatched the apple in midair and bit into it. Stunned, I handed Aidan another and wondered if people in the jostling city would be as rude as she.

  The coach driver opened a hatch to tell us we’d reach Fallardston in an hour.

  The sun beat mercilessly upon our carriage. I was becoming intimately aware of certain smells—Miss Jessop’s sweat mixed with powder, the tattooed man’s scent of ash and lamp oil. His companion smelled like my stolen apple. Sweat ran down my ribs. Oh, to jump in a cool river and swim! Much I knew what that would feel like, but it was heavenly to imagine.

  I flexed my feet and wiggled my legs. Circulation in my toes was shutting down for good.

  Abruptly, the horses neighed, and stopped. Miss Jessop woke with a snort, and Priscilla, Aidan, and I exchanged glances. Surely we weren’t in Fallardston yet?

  Voices yelled. The horses shrilled. The coachmen shouted them on. But we didn’t move.

  “Mercy!” Miss Jessop began to whimper. “I do believe we’re—”

  “Highwaymen,” Aidan hissed. “Everyone down!”

  I folded Priscilla’s body down on my lap, then lay myself on top of her, my heart racing.

  Aidan must be wrong.

  Musket shots pierced the stillness, discordant in the autumn sunshine. They echoed in my skull.

  This can’t be happening.

  Miss Jessop whimpered. Oh, let there be some normal explanation!

  So this is what terror feels like.

  Like hearts pounding. And mad, blind fear.

  So much for my gypsy luck.

  Another shot, and we felt a thump. It was the coachman, tumbling down onto the road.

  The scarred man pushed his side door open and dragged his lady after him.

  “Shall we try to go too?” I whispered to Aidan.

  “Take Priscilla,” he began, then stopped.

  A dark shape appeared in the door.

  The highwayman.

  Chapter 10

  Aidan slid down onto the floor, and for a moment I thought him a coward. But with an explosive, double-legged kick, he smashed the door open, clipping the bandit in the face. The bandit staggered back, and Aidan was outside in two ticks, striking him with both fists.

  Then he stopped, stepped back, and held his arms up.

  Dread came over me. So much for our hope. The man held a pistol to Aidan’s belly.

  “Stop!” I cried. I pushed Prissy off me and squirmed out the door, which barely opened for Aidan’s blocking it. Prissy called after me as I stepped out into the blinding light.

  A thin line of blood trickled from the bandit’s eyebrow. He dabbed it and stared at the spot as if such a thing had never been dared before. His finger flexed on his trigger.

  I pushed myself in front of Aidan and felt the hot metal of the barrel against my chest.

  “Leave my friend alone,” I told him. “Put your gun away this minute, and let us go.”

  Aidan tried to move me aside but I resisted. The bandit chuckled. He was thick as an oak, yet he stood with a flamboyant grace, one fist on his hip, the other brandishing a pistol like a rapier. He wore a ruffle of lace at his neck and a black band belting his waist. Robbing poor travelers must be a thriving trade. A wide-brimmed hat obscured much of his face, but his eyes, brown and gold, were as calm as those of a priest saying mass.

  Rolling in the dust of the road, moaning, was the coachman. His blood formed a growing black puddle. I made a move toward him, and the highwayman jabbed his pistol at me.

  A hissing fury reared inside me. How dare he threaten me and my friends? How dare he?

  “For shame!” I spat the words. “Does the brave bandit fear a peasant girl? What do you care if I help the poor man? You’ve picked a coach full of penniless country folk to murder.”

  He laughed in my face. “Not quite penniless, my fiery little maid,” he said, seizing the ornaments around my neck. The rawhide strap holding my money broke, but the gypsy charms, on braided cords of gossamer silk, didn’t yield. He decided they weren’t worth the bother. Instead, he stroked my cheek with his fingertip.

  Aidan growled and lunged toward him. The bandit raised his gun.

  “Tie him up,” the bandit said, handing me a length of rope. “Bind your sweetheart, missy, and perhaps I won’t kill him. Though perhaps I will. Make it tight, now.”

  I took the rope and cinched Aidan’s wrists like a traitor. My sweetheart.

  He reached into the coach and dragged out Prissy and then Miss Jessop. Miss Jessop kicked him, and I liked her better for it. Prissy’s love charm broke off with her money pouch.

  “Now,” he said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you all.” The fiend was enjoying this!

  “Because God will punish you in hell for it,” Priscilla said, and the highwayman laughed.

  “Two courageous maidens! But spare me the preaching.” He looked again at me. “Well?”

  “Because you were born to be more than a ruthless spiller of blood,” I said.

  He made an extravagant bow. “The lady has spoken. Lie down in the road, all of you, behind the carriage.” We had no choice but to obey. Miss Jessop whimpered pitiably.

  “Farewell, my tigress,” he called, kissing his fingers and winking his cursed hawk’s eyes at me. Then, leaping into the coachman’s seat, the highwayman threw back the braking lever and cracked the driver’s whip. The team of six horses flew forward, eager to flee this frightful spot.

  And then he was gone.

  I scrambled to my feet, tripping on the hem of my dress, and flew to the driver. He wasn’t moving as much now, but lay feebly, bleeding in several places. What could I do? I had no water, no bandages, no medicines, not even any whiskey to relieve his pain.

  I placed my hands on his face. “I’m here,” I said. “Where does it hurt?”

  His eyelids flickered open. “Thorndike,” he said. “Jeremy Thorndike.”

  I was busy unbuttoning his shirt to see where the musket shot had pierced his side. “Who is Jeremy Thorndike?” His wounds made me cringe, but I kept my face calm for his sake.

  “Me,” he whispered. His face was ashy from loss of blood. The wound on his thigh wasn’t bleeding now. He had little left to spare. My delay in reaching him had cost him dearly.

  “My wife, son. In Hibbardville.”

  I began to sob. There was nothing I could do. Except one thing. I moved to his head and lifted it into my lap, stroking his face.

  “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t see his face anymore. “I’m so sorry.”

  He let out a ragged breath. “S’all right, lass,” he said. “God reward you. My wife, my son. You’ll tell them.”

  His head turned to one side, like a child nestling closer to his mother, and then lay still.

  “I’ll tell them,” I said, closing his eyes. “I’ll tell them you said good-bye.”

  Chapter 11

  Aidan carried Mr. Thorndike to the shade of a tall maple, its leaves scarlet like the infamy that was wrought upon the poor man. He lay the body down, then moved about restlessly, his face contorted. Finally he picked up a rock the size of a small melon and, with an animal yell, heaved it far down the road where it landed in the dust. At any other time, I would have been impressed.

  “Feeling better?”

  He sank into the grass and wouldn’t look at me.

  I removed Mr. Thorndike’s jacket and covered his face with it, then sat down and tried to think. Now what?

  Priscilla and her aunt sat some ways off, wrung out from shock and fear. Miss Jessop’s skin looked pale. Priscilla tended to her the best she could.

  “What were you thinking, sailing out of the carriage and ticking off the ruffian, Evie?” Aidan said, with surprising anger in his voice. “You might have been killed!”

  I bristled. “Oh? And what about you? Kicking t
he door in his face? It’s a wonder he didn’t shoot you for spite.”

  “What would you have me do, sit and wait for him to murder us all?” Aidan snapped.

  I couldn’t believe this. “Tit for tat. What gives you license for bravery, and me none?”

  “I told your grandfather I would protect you.” I’d never seen Aidan’s face so red.

  “I appreciate that,” I said, “but how did you plan to do so, lying dead in the highway?”

  He sat up quickly. “I’m not dead, am I?”

  “No, and there’s at least some small thanks to me that you’re not.”

  “Oh, stop,” Priscilla cried. “What’s gotten into you two? Aren’t things bad enough without making them worse?”

  Aidan twisted the seed kernels off a long stalk of grass and said nothing.

  “My aunt is unwell,” Priscilla said. “She’ll need to rest, if we ever reach town. Did anyone manage to keep any money?”

  Aidan showed his empty pockets. I shook my head.

  “Aunt had a little, tucked away”—she swallowed—“somewhere. What about the driver?”

  “You want us to rob a dead man, Prissy?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, Evie, it isn’t robbing. We can pay his widow back, I daresay. But if he’s got any money at all, we need it now far worse than he does.”

  I did find a few coins in Mr. Thorndike’s pocket. I handed them to Prissy. We waited for other vehicles to pass by, but at least an hour passed with no sign of a traveler. Then we heard the clop of hooves from the wrong direction. We shaded the sun from our eyes and peered west. Along came a high-backed wagon, painted all in green and blue, pulled by a single exhausted horse. As it came nearer I could make out large gold letters proclaiming “COMMEDIA DELL’ARTE, TRAGEDIC AND WHIMISCAL THEATRICALS UPON COMMAND. WILL PLAY FOR DINNER.”

  “Do you think they might take us to Fallardston?” Priscilla whispered.

  “It’s not the way they’re going,” Aidan said.

  “Let me go speak with them,” I said. “Perhaps I can persuade them to help.”