Page 52 of Against the Wind

Chapter 18

Some hours later, Kit walked along the side of the road, her head down and her cap pulled so low she could barely see where to step. It had rained during the night, clearing the air, and though the path before her was quite muddy in places the entire village seemed cleaner. The scent of wet grass and soil, the smell of the country, was refreshing.

It was quiet. She saw no men in the fields. While the women might be working in their homes, were all the men at the meeting? A chicken, followed by her chicks, picked at the sparse grass next to a cottage Kit hurried by.

She had gone a good distance before she noticed several men entering a barn next to a large cottage at the end of the village, on the edge of a field where wooly ewes grazed with their lambs in the sun. As the men disappeared into the worn wooden building, Kit followed silently behind, staying in back, hidden from view by a large plow. A circle of nearly twenty men engaged in heated conversation sat in the middle of the wide space. A few stood at the edges leaning against wooden posts, listening. Martin and John were not among them.

“I say we must join with Oliver and let the government know the people are tired of the laws the rich lords force upon us,” said one man dressed in worn trousers and a woolen jacket. “We might send a petition to London.”

“Aye, Isaac,” said another. “We dinna have any say in them laws! ’Tis got to change, that.”

“Dear members of the country delegation,” said a man Kit recognized as Mr. Oliver. She vividly recalled his whiskered face and light red hair from the Dog Inn. “I represent the Radicals of London, as ye know. We argue for parliamentary reform that would change your circumstances for the better. But petitions will not bring the change you seek. There must be action! I have just come from Nottingham, from a meeting with our good Captain Brandreth and the others there who stand with us. They are prepared to fight. And my friend at the ironworks John Onion tells me there are many men at the factory who will join with us. The time is ripe to—”

A loud bang sounded as the door of the barn was thrown open, barely missing Kit where she lurked. She jerked away just as a portly man holding a pistol in his outstretched hand entered with two men behind him, one much taller and in the dark blue and white uniform of the King’s Hussars. The man with the pistol said, “I am the Sheffield magistrate, and this gathering plotting action against the government is at an end. You’re all under arrest!” The magistrate turned to the man in uniform. “General Byng, please place these men under arrest and transport them to Wakefield for questioning.”

The would-be revolutionaries scattered, fleeing in all directions like rats before a fire. One escaped through a side door, followed by another. Then another. The general and the man at his side began grabbing whomever they could lay their hands on.

Kit waited, pressed against the barn wall until she saw a chance to escape. Dashing out the front door, she looked frantically around, wondering where to run. A fleeing revolutionary knocked her to the ground.

“Kit!”

She recognized Martin’s voice, but before she could rise his strong arms lifted her from the ground. She twisted to stare into his anger-filled eyes, dark and menacing.

“Martin…”

“Come, I’ll get you out of here,” he growled. John ran up, and Martin said, “Hurry. Into that copse of trees,” indicating a cluster of birches a short distance away. “We’ll wait until they depart.”

The confrontations inside the barn were loud in Kit’s ears as Martin dragged her off. Just as he’d pushed her behind a large rock in a stand of birch trees, a pistol shot shattered the air. Kit’s heart pounded in her chest, and she glanced at her husband. Anger was reflected in his tight jaw and furrowed brow, and he glared at her clothing.

John peered over the boulder and said, “They’ve rounded up some of the men.”

Martin continued to study Kit, his blue eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. His voice was low and harsh. “What are you doing here, Kit? And why are you dressed like that?”

Still panting, she spouted her prepared alibi. “I only wanted to be less noticeable as I sketched. Then I was drawn to the barn and the conversations of the men.” She glared back at him in defiance. “I was only observing.”

“You cause me to wonder,” he said with a frown. “Perhaps I should not have brought you here. You might have been arrested, or worse. For all that’s holy, the magistrate might have killed you with that pistol he was waving about.”

She tried to look contrite, but it clearly didn’t work. He said, “Perhaps I should send you back to London.”

London? Did she want to go back to London? Strangely, the thought did not appeal. She wanted to be with him, traitor though he was.

John, who’d been keeping watch as Martin scolded her, cast Kit a sympathetic glance. Peering once more over the rock he took that moment to announce, “They’ve gone, sir. I think we can leave.”

“She could have been killed!”

Martin sat in a nearby tavern with John, each man holding a tankard of ale. Much as he disliked the taste, he was downing the liquid just to calm his nerves. The tavern keeper had just told them that ten men, including William Oliver, had been arrested and taken to Wakefield for questioning, but Oliver was seen walking free in town not a half hour later. The others had yet to be released.

An ache gripped his chest at the thought of losing Kit. He couldn’t imagine being without her. His wife. His kitten. His life. The redheaded vixen had captured his heart, so now he must protect her—even from her own foolishness, it seemed.

At the moment he was so angry he’d had to leave, unable to remain with her for fear he would shake her until her brain rattled. The memory of Kit on the ground had been all too familiar, a vivid reminder of Elise lying on that Paris street so long ago, of the nightmare he’d had in London. It had been the specter of harm to Kit that he had dreaded from the beginning. This was why he’d brought her with him, to protect her, though he was clearly failing. Again.

“Aye, ’tis possible,” John said. “The magistrate seemed the excitable sort.”

“It was reckless for her to be there. I wonder too what she heard of the men’s conversations. I’d prefer she knew nothing of what may lie ahead.”

“She did not tell ye?”

“No. She only spoke of men arguing as the magistrate and General Byng arrived. I do not think she was there long.” He glanced up from his ale and added, “Oliver’s quick freedom after the arrest confirms he is working with the magistrate. There is no other explanation for why he is loose and the others still held.”