Chapter Eight
He was gone.
She'd pressed after him, but the thick cluster of men swarming the broken tankards had impeded her path. When she'd reached the door, he'd already vanished with the coach.
Just like that her hope for the future that would satisfy Grandmother's dreams for her was extinguished.
She scrunched her fists together.
"What's wrong, love?" A burly man with a bushy beard not quite masking a rosy face called from a table.
"I-" Fiona swallowed hard.
This establishment was not a place she ever should have found herself in. The throngs of workers and scent of alcohol embodied everything Grandmother's manor house was not, and she stepped away. She bumped into something-someone, she realized, and the man's eyes narrowed.
"Forgive me, sir."
"You're not lost, are you? Want to have a drink? We've got mulled wine." The man turned to someone else. "My wife always likes a bit of mulled wine. The cinnamon and sugar go well with the hot liquid."
Fiona groaned. She was not going to sit in some establishment, listening as thickset men discussed Christmas drinks. "I need your help. The gentleman you saw-well, I need to find him. I fear he ran away."
"Hobbled away," the man corrected, and Fiona frowned.
The man sighed. "Look, love-why ever would he do that?"
His voice boomed, and more heads swiveled in their direction. Fiona shifted her legs, and the wooden beams of the floor croaked beneath her. A fire leaped and swirled in a great stone hearth beside her, the flames merrily devouring the mound of logs and kindling. The twigs snapped and sparked, and the smoke stung Fiona's eyes.
Her chest constricted, and she moved her hand to her neck, fiddling with her mother's brooch. The sharp swerves of the flower-shaped design provided little comfort now.
Fiona sucked in a deep breath of air, conscious of the inquiring gazes fixed on her, and patted her stomach.
"Lord." The man stared at her abdomen. "He's done a runner, has he?"
She nodded, her heart pounding wildly.
"My daughter went out with a man who did a runner, and I've vowed to murder him. Strangle him. Or shoot him with one of those fancy rifles the former soldiers are always going on about." The burly man rubbed his hands together. "I'm going to the bottom of the world to track down the man who ruined my precious daughter. I reckon this one hasn't gotten quite so far away."
"Probably not in New Holland," one man shouted and the others hooted.
"Well-" Fiona faltered. "Could you help me find this one?"
"Sure will." The man leaned toward her conspiringly and whispered, "And I'll kill him for you too."
"That's-that's not necessary," she squeaked.
"After the man deflowered a pretty duck like you?" The man's eyes roamed her body, and she shivered. "Got you pregnant? And then abandoned you before Christmas? I would consider it my Christmas gift to you."
"I-"
"Don't worry. I'll let you think of a gift you can give me." He winked and dropped his gaze to her chest again.
Fiona tightened her cloak around her. "I just want him back. That's all. I don't want you to harm him! He's, he's-"
"Yes, love?" A more grandfatherly type prodded her, and she searched for something she could say that might lessen some of the tension roiling through the room. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs. The men shouldn't do anything drastic. "He's my husband."
"Oh." The burly man's mouth parted, and he stepped away. "Pardon, Mrs. . . . er . . ."
Her cheeks heated. "Mrs. Percival."
"I'm Bill Potter." The burly man directed a thick thumb toward the grandfatherly man. "And this ‘ere is Mr. Nicholas."
"Pleased to meet you." She gave an automatic curtsy, and the men guffawed. Warmth seared the back of her neck, but Mr. Nicholas merely shook his head.
"I've been waiting seventy-four years for someone to treat me like a proper aristocrat. I think we got to help the lady now."
She hesitated. "I'm not sure it's best … "
"Nonsense." Mr. Nicholas shook his head. "Now tell us what happened."
"Her bastardly husband left after she told him she was with child," Mr. Potter interjected.
She inhaled. "You all saw him. The handsome-"
"I don't want you to be describing him in that manner." Mr. Nicholas shook his head gently. "That's where all the problems start, or at least that's what keeps them from ending."
"Just help me." She gave a nervous glance to Mr. Potter. "But please no shooting. Or strangling."
The man nodded solemnly. "Though you shouldn't trust a man flouncing around in all those silks with all those airs."
Mr. Nicholas smiled. "We'll bring him back. Don't you worry."
Fiona sighed. "Thank you."
"Let's get going," Mr. Nicholas said.
The men strode from the tavern, and Fiona scurried after them.
Right now she wasn't Fiona, the woman who had refused to go to London. Right now she was a completely different woman, one who frequented taverns and chatted with the people inside.
She wasn't sure which one felt more like her.
The stars had disappeared, replaced with thick clouds. Snow thundered down, burying the cobblestones.
"Now who would have thought it would start snowing?" Mr. Nicholas peered at the sky.
The other men murmured bewilderment, and Fiona bit her tongue to keep from declaring her husband had it figured out all along. It was no good acting love sick for a man who'd never been and never would be her lover.
"We shan't catch up with him now," one of the younger men said apologetically. "But don't you worry. If it's a home for the baby you need, me mam runs a farm for ladies in particular situations."
"Thank you," Fiona croaked. She fiddled with her cloak, wondering whether she might be fortunate enough to evade being recognized. "But I would appreciate if you could keep my situation a secret."
The men nodded. "That we can do."
"This ‘ere lad isn't sure how babies are made anyway," Mr. Potter said.
The men guffawed, prodding each other, and the face of the man in question reddened, matching Grandmother's Christmas decor.
"Please. Gentlemen. Sirs." A few of the men raised their eyebrows, but she carried on. She had to remember that tonight she was one of them. Just a girl who could be any of their daughters. "Please just help me find the man I was with."
"He went South. Toward London," the groom said. "He took off with one of the horses."
"Then South we go."
"It will be hard going in this weather. The wheels aren't suited for it and the next inn is far away."
Fiona stared at the snow storming down and pulled her cloak more tightly around her.
Of course it would all be for naught. Of course.
The man didn't want to be found. And even though she'd gotten so close to finding him again, even though she'd enjoyed his company, she would never see him again.
She sighed. There had to be something they could do. Something that could keep this opportunity from sliding away. Something that . . . She tilted her head. "Do you have a sleigh?"
"Oy! We do. We never use it-haven't seen snow like this in years, and it will be melted by the end of the week."
Fiona smiled, and the groom led the way to the sleigh. It was black and glossy with dark black wedges. She smiled. "It's perfect."
"Jump inside, darling!" Mr. Potter bellowed.
The others piled in and the groom hooked four horses to the sleigh. They were big and strong looking, stomping their hooves in the snow and tasting on occasion the snowflakes that toppled downward.
With a jolt the horses moved. Their pace was steady, faster than Fiona expected, and hope grew within her when the sleigh left the road, moving to where the snow was thicker, and headed in the direction of the flickering lights of the next village.
"We haven't had so much excitement since we had a Frenchman hiding in one of the barns!" Mr. Potter declared. "He came all the way from Dover, rounding the coast as if he were some sort of holiday goer."
The men shook their heads, heaving deep sighs.
"Though who knows!" Mr. Potter shrugged. "Maybe that's the French idea of a holiday. What with Bonaparte as a leader and all."
"We'll catch up with him soon, love," Mr. Nicholas said gently. "Don't you worry. You'll find the father of your baby soon."
"I hope so." Fiona's eyes flickered down.
The horses dragged the sleigh swiftly and expediently through the thick snow. The men sang Christmas songs, clapping their hands and stomping their feet.