Page 14 of Lyon on the Loose

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Cowley—if you pen a note to the landlord, I’ll have Jeffrey head over to the inn with it and see if we can’t arrange for you to pick up your things in the morning.”

“I don’t want our Jeffrey charging about the countryside when there are bandits on the road!” Mrs. Metson shot her husband a stern look.

“Quite right. I’ll go with him.” Roland started to rise from his seat.

Metson leaped to his feet. “You’ll do so no such thing. Jeffrey and I will go together while you rest here and gather your strength. We live out of the way enough that those highwaymen won’t be a problem, and unless they live hereabouts, they won’t know the way we’ll be traveling. Highwaymen prefer the toll roads to the pack horse tracks of the old days.”

Roland glanced across at Lissy. “The gentlemen who attacked us are not highwaymen in the general sense and pose no threat to anyone else. One of them has a score to settle with me. Neither is, to my knowledge, local.”

Lissy nodded her agreement. Oscar was Suffolk-born and bred. She knew nothing of Sutton’s stamping grounds, but if Roland thought them safe from discovery by their pursuers, he was probably correct. She would like her luggage back, because it contained her drawing book. But did she want it so she could hold onto memories of happier times with Oscar? Right now, she felt more inclined to tear out the portraits she’d drawn of him and trample on them.

The farmer and his son departed, leaving Roland poring over a copy of Franklin’s Roads and the map that formed its frontispiece. A mug of steaming liquid was presented to him by one of the Metsons’ daughters, who then approached Lissy with another tankard.

“Here’s some spiced mulled cider, miss.”

Lissy took a sip, then declared it to be the best thing she’d ever tasted. Tired and overwrought as she was, it went straight to her head, and she soon found herself feeling very comfortable with the world, recent troubles forgotten.

“Are you well, Mrs. Cowley?” Roland called across the room.

“Improving rapidly, thank you . . . husband. What are you doing?”

“Plotting an alternative route to Ipswich that will avoid major towns, as well as the regular coaching inns and the roads that serve them. It’ll take longer to reach our destination, but we’re less likely to encounter undesirables on the way.”

That would mean spending even more time in Roland’s company. Well—she could probably bear it if she had to. But where was he going, what was his mission, and why was he traveling incognito? Now that they were companions in adversity, he might be prepared to tell her about it.

The Metsons’ eldest daughter returned and settled on a milking stool, gazing in concern at Lissy’s damaged temple before raising her eyes to her bonnet.

“Your bonnet is sadly crushed, Mrs. Cowley. It is a wonder it didn’t fall off when you jumped out of the coach. I cannot believe I am meeting someone who has had such an adventure! It’s even more exciting than when the golden rabbit was born last spring, or when Jeffrey fell down the well. Oh, but you probably don’t think it’s exciting at all. If you let me, I can make your bonnet right as rain before you continue your journey. I can’t mend your head, but Lavender, my younger sister, can.”

Lissy was past caring what she looked like, but there was an eagerness in the girl’s eyes she could not ignore. She undid the ribbon and removed the bonnet. It was a sorry sight.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Cowley. If I just undo the stitching on the lining here, I can run a hot iron over the straw—having wet it thoroughly first of course—and sew in a piece of waxed canvas. Then I can stitch the lining back in place, and no one will be any the wiser. I’m very happy to do it, once my chores are done.”

Lissy nodded her agreement and was about to settle back into a gentle fireside doze when another of the Metson offspring appeared. This young woman was a complete contrast to her sister, being somewhat pale and thin. She kept her right hand clutched close against her stomach, and Lissy noticed scarring and lumps as if the hand were diseased or had been badly injured.

“I’m Lavender. If you let me, I’ll clean and anoint your head. I promise I’ll be careful and I won’t hurt you—I’m in charge of the physick in this house.” Then she laughed, a tinkling bell of a laugh that warmed the heart. “Don’t think you can offend me by noticing my hand—an accident with a fire a long time ago. As you can see, I use my left hand all the time. What with that, and my knowledge of medicinal herbs, our ancestors would have branded me a witch!”

“Nobody would ever think you were a witch. No witch could sing like an angel like you do, Lavender.”

“You’re always praising me beyond my worth, Wilhemina.” She grinned at her elder sister, now busy scrubbing and laying the table.

“You can sing?” Lissy echoed.

“So, they tell me.” Lavender reached for a cloth and dabbed at Lissy’s head wound. “But I really only sing for myself.”

Lissy took another draft of her warm cider and submitted herself to Lavender’s gentle ministrations. There was a moment when an astringent lotion made her wince, but after that, a heat spread out from it which must be doing her good. Finally, a pad was applied, and a bandage wrapped around her head. It was comforting . . . but she must look an absolute fright. She glanced anxiously across at Roland, but he was still tracing his finger along the road network and asking if Wilhemina or Mrs. Metson knew anything about the width of the various bridges, the merits of the inns along the way, or the type of vehicle best suited to these countryside routes. Hopefully, Roland was too well-mannered to laugh at her, whatever she looked like.

“Wilhemina’s more talented than me—she’s an excellent painter,” Lavender observed as she moved away with her bowl of water. “We have some of her watercolors on the wall, and they are often commented on by visitors.”

A sigh escaped Lissy. How she missed her painting! It seemed as if years had passed since she had last sat down with her drawing book and colors. Would life ever settle enough for her to be able to do so again? Not so long ago, her fingertips had been stained with cyan, burnt umber, aquamarine, and raw ochre. Now, they were clean, like those of a proper young lady—save for a few specks of dirt from inside the hollow tree.

A frisson of sensation fizzed up her spine, and when she glanced up, it was to see Roland watching her. Before she could interpret his expression or evaluate her response to it, Farmer Metson breezed in through the door, weighed down with their luggage, and the moment was lost.

It had become clear to Lissy, even before she and Roland sat down to enjoy a simple rural repast with the Metsons, that they would be traveling no farther that night. Mrs. Metson cheerfully offered them her son’s room, asserting that Jeffrey would be fine on the truckle bed in front of the fire. Rufus the cocker spaniel would keep him company.

The farmer’s wife led Lissy and Roland upstairs as soon as the room was ready for them.

“The bed’s rather narrow,” she apologized, “but I hope you’ll manage.”