Page 22 of Hearts at Home

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T he farrier plied his business from a workshop on the southern outskirts of the little market town of Reabridge. Or his daughter did. The housekeeper at Dr. Wagner’s where Jack was staying had been voluble on the subject of dear Miss Hughes, who needed help now that her father was ailing but was too proud to accept it.

The position of the cottage and workshop was not particularly defensible, Jack noted as he led the two horses through the open gate. Too open, with access not only from the road, but from the lane that ran beside the neat cottage where the farrier presumably lived, and across the fields behind the buildings.

But Jack was in peaceful England, not Spain or France or Mauritius or the Indies or any of the other far-flung lands to which King George had sent his soldiers. Of which Jack was only one because he had not yet officially resigned, and if he wasn’t Captain Jack Wrath of His Majesty’s 20th Lancers, who was he?

One of the horses took advantage of Jack’s inattention to pull sharply away to the right, towards a tub planted with peppermint and chamomile. Jack jerked on the lead rein, and received a hurt look from the other beast, Adam Wagner’s patient mount. However, the recalcitrant gelding Adam had loaned to Jack fell back into line.

Jack led them past the dusty curricle that stood outside the barn, its shafts empty, then slowed his steps as raised voices in the barn hinted at an altercation. He sped up again when he caught the words.

“I’ll have the constable on him. The man is mad. Locked up, that’s what he should be.” A man’s voice in the crisp accent of the aristocracy, the nasal tones shrill with anger.

“ Locked up, is it? I’ll be giving you locked up !” That voice was deeper and rougher, with hints of a Welsh lilt overlaying the Cheshire vowels.

Jack hesitated. What was he getting himself into?

“Father! Keep back!” A woman’s voice, sharp with fear.

“Yes, keep him back,” the aristocrat sneered, “or I’ll shoot him like the mad dog he is.”

“He was only coming to my aid, my lord,” the woman protested. “You cannot blame a father for defending his daughter.”

Jack reached the open doors as the aristocrat growled, “I wasn’t hurting you. You and he both need to learn your place, bitch.”

“What is going on here?” Jack demanded, crisping his own pronunciation into the counterfeit of his so-called betters he had perfected since he was first made up to lieutenant.

The scene within had him dropping the reins and moving forward. The workshop was occupied by three people and two horses, the latter a pair of bays that Jack immediately characterized as more showy than sound.

The aristocrat was much as expected: tall, but with too much flesh for his height. Overdressed for the occasion, with lace at his neck and cuffs, and a coat the colour of squashed strawberries over a maroon waistcoat heavily embroidered in gold. Gold tassels on his boots, too, and gems glinting from his cravat, his fobs, and his rings.

The pistol had set Jack moving. A duelling pistol, heavy on the gilt but not less dangerous for its ridiculous adornments. It was wavering between the two other people in the barn, and the hand that held it was shaking. The pompous lord was scared out of his mind.

The woman stood at bay, her hands held out palms backward as if to restrain the man behind her. She was nearly as tall as the lordling who was nearly as tall as Jack himself. She was muscular, too, with powerful shoulders. Her dark hair, curled like a crown on her head, proudly proclaimed she was a woman. He would have known anyway. Even in an old shapeless coat, men’s trousers, and a leather apron she was so exquisitely female that Jack’s mouth dried. Her gaze met Jack’s, her dark eyes full of defiance, fear, and anger.

Her father topped the rest of them by a head. He was a massive man, big and burly, with iron grey hair and dark eyes like his daughter’s. Those eyes were currently wide and dazed, as if something had hit him on the head and knocked him silly.

Jack took in all of that at a glance before the nobleman spoke. “That idiot peasant attacked me,” he said. “Call the constable. I want him arrested.”

“Is that right?” Jack said, giving the fool an easy smile as he walked closer.

“Yes, dammit. And the female, too. Stupid bitch.” The man turned his face toward Jack, baring his teeth in a snarl and displaying the scarlet imprint of a palm on his cheek. “She hit me. For no reason.”

“I see,” Jack replied, placing his hand on the pistol and pushing it so it was pointed away from father and daughter. Towards the fool’s innocent horses, but in the confined space that couldn’t be helped. He took hold of the man’s hand and squeezed, catching the weapon as it fell. He spoke over his shoulder. “He assaulted you, miss, and your father took exception.”

It was a statement, but she treated it as a question, her answer a cautious, “He came up behind me as I was shoeing his horse, and grabbed… and took hold of me in an inappropriate manner. When I protested, he tried to… I slapped him.”

“Oh, come on,” said the aristocrat. “She was waggling her buttocks at me! She wanted it. I didn’t hurt her. Just had a bit of a feel. What sort of a decent woman wears trousers? She was asking for it.”

Part of Jack’s focus was on removing the ball and gunpowder from the pistol, not an easy task with only one working arm, but he was not about to take his attention from the frilled fop. He drawled, “I would suggest the slap was a strong hint your advances were not welcome.”

“Are you going to get the constable to lock this madman up? Or not?” the man demanded.

A simple question with an obvious answer. “Not.” Jack handed the now harmless pistol back to its owner. Perhaps the witless waste of air would see reason if it was pointed out to him. Jack had known it to work with others of his ilk. Though he’d been their superior officer at the time.

“Look, man, if you insist on calling the law, you will find yourself before the magistrate, explaining why you made an indecent assault on a respectable tradeswoman of this town while she worked on your horse, then drew a gun on her father when he came to her aid. The Hughes are known and respected in this town. You are—” he made a guess based on the luggage tied on the back of the curricle— “passing through. You will be lucky to get off with a fine.”

The idiot was taken aback for the briefest of moments, before his self-consequence reasserted itself. He struck an attitude. “I, sir, am Lord Augustus Featherston-Crawford.” He stopped, apparently for applause, for he appeared miffed when none was forthcoming. “I would think that a Featherston-Crawford would be believed over a pair of peasants.”

“Then you would be wrong, Gussie,” Jack told him. “I imagine they called you Gussie at school? Miss Hughes, are Lord Gussie’s horses ready?”

“That one is,” the woman replied, indicating with her hand. “I was doing the left hind on the second when I felt his lordship’s hands…” she trailed off, shuddering, and Jack was barely able to suppress the urge to punch Lord Augustus’s puffy face. But violence would not be useful in this situation, and besides, he was tired of it.

“Bad form, Gussie,” he growled. The pompous swine opened his mouth to object, but was not stupid enough to persist in the face of Jack’s glare.

Mr. Hughes had wandered away from his daughter and was soothing one of the nervous beasts. “This shoe isn’t on properly,” he declared, lifting a hoof as he leaned into the animal. “Evan! Where is that boy. Here, Gwennie, help your Da. Fetch me that hammer that’s on the floor. I’ll skelp that boy’s bum for him, leaving tools like that.”

The farrier’s daughter scooped the hammer from the floor and a handful of horseshoe nails from the pocket of her apron. She managed to sound like a girl when she begged, “May I have a turn, Da? While you watch?”

The farrier nodded, and let his daughter take the hoof.

“Come along, Gussie,” Jack commanded. He led the other horse out to the curricle, and soon had it harnessed, ordering Lord Augustus to put a hand here or a finger there whenever needed. The lordling objected only the once, but subsided after a glare from Jack.

After a few minutes, Miss Hughes led the other horse out and put it in the shafts. Lord Augustus leapt into the curricle and waited impatiently for her to finish. Jack took the opportunity to spread a little fear to lend wings to the horrid man’s heels.

He strolled over to the phaeton, and leaned his hip against the fore wheel. “Better stand away,” Lord Augustus advised. He had his whip in his hand, and some of his arrogance had crept back in.

“Before I do,” Jack told him, “I want to introduce myself and give you some advice.” He made his voice as menacing as possible. Twenty-five years in the army starting as a drummer-boy and working his way up through the ranks to captain meant he did menacing well.

The fool ignored Jack’s tone. “You! Girl! Step out of the way!” He raised the whip, but Jack vaulted up the wheel and wrenched the whip from his hand before it could be used—whether to flick the team into motion or to lash at Miss Hughes.

Lord Augustus cowered back in his seat as Jack looked over him. “I am the son of the–,” he quavered.

“I am Captain Jack Wrath,” Jack told him, his voice a low growl. “I have served King George in far flung lands. I am an expert at killing and maiming. I do not object to using those skills against bullies who pick on women and the elderly. I do not know your father, but perhaps I should ask a duke or two to pay him a visit and explain to him that his son is a waste of good air.”

Never mind that the only duke Jack had a nodding acquaintance with was Wellington, who was in Paris and unlikely to listen to a lowly ex-captain about a civilian matter in any case. The threat did what was intended. Lord Augustus, already pale, whitened further.

Jack bent closer. “You have your horses. Pay Miss Hughes the money you owe her and leave. Keep going out of town. You are not welcome in Reabridge.”

“Oh, I say!” Lord Augustus complained.

Jack raised the whip. Lord Augustus pulled a fat purse from the inside pocket of his jacket, and tossed a coin to Miss Hughes, who stepped away from the horses’ heads to catch it.

Jack leapt to the ground and threw the whip up to Lord Augustus, who fumbled the catch and had to scrabble for the whip on the floor before it could slither away. The team was already moving, and the curricle’s rear wheel scraped the gate on its way out before Lord Augustus could straighten and grab the reins.

The curricle turned onto the road away from the town. In Jack’s last sight of the lordling, he was swearing at the horses, who had the bits between their teeth and were not minded to pay attention.

“And good riddance,” said Miss Hughes. “I owe you my thanks, Captain Wrath. Or is it ‘Lord’?”

“Jack will do,” Jack told her, letting his accent relax and a little touch of his East Midlands home creep in. “I’m not a lord. And I am not much of a captain.” He used his good hand to point at the useless arm, buckled to his side with the forearm bound across his chest so that it didn’t flop into trouble. He glared at the empty road down which Lord Augustus had disappeared. “I dislike pompous aristocrats, and I cannot abide bullies.”

As he spoke, he turned back towards the barn, jerked up his head, and then leapt into a run. Adam’s bleeding horses had made a feast out of Miss Hughes’ barrel of herbs.