CHAPTER 18
The Gypsy and His Monkey
Quenton considered buying a coat. He sat with his back to the wall and his knees drawn to his chest to conserve his warmth while waiting for the afternoon sun to crest the rooftops and light his floor. His riding coat of merino wool was no match for the reluctant stone of his cell, but he was not anxious to purchase one of the lice-infested rags that the guard bargained as such.
Although his recent self-image still reeled from the lunacy of having forgotten about Henri's letter, he did not consider himself stupid, and deliberated about a coat for something to do. Even though La Prison Sainte-Pelagie might never be as bad as the notorious Bastille, the prison was still a prison, by anyone's consideration. His cell was ten paces by twelve, if he moved the metal cot serving as a bed. Otherwise, he could deem it only ten paces square. He preferred the twelve paces, even if he was not going anywhere.
He should have burned Henri's letter when Moises had suggested it. Now he found himself with an uncertain future. While waiting for someone else to decide it for him, he might count flies on the windowsill or roaches in the slop served for his daily meal, or listen to lice sizzle in the hot embers from his meager supply of cigars.
When would Moises arrive from Limoges? How could he know? There were no special couriers running in and out at the prisoner's behest. Quenton would feel lucky if the guard whom he had bribed actually mailed his letter to Benoit. He could hope only that the promise of reward provided sufficient motivation, and the soonest Moises could appear might be in days or weeks or even months, depending upon the night guard outside his door.
He found himself scratching the back of his neck and determined it best not to consider the vermin crawling there. Restlessly, he pushed up from the flea-ridden bed and pumped his arms as he made the long walk from one wall to the next. Another unlucky soul had once measured the days of interment by etching marks in the rock in standard groups of five. Quenton counted fourscore and ten for the ninety-eighth time. If he were to start a tally, would there be a need to add more to them before his own release?
Dismally, he regarded the straggled lines scratched in stone. He dared not ponder what his thoughts would be like after that many days. Now he recognized what Alix had gone through when kept in her mother's cellar. She had been just a girl, and had survived things that no one could have believed would happen. How had she managed all those years ago?
He found himself rubbing an itch on the small of his back. As annoying as it was to be unable to scratch between his shoulder blades, he knew he needed a challenge to absorb his attention; otherwise, his next cell might be in an asylum. All he had was his determination to endure, until Moises Benoit's round face appeared in the square grate of the ironbound door. It was roughly ninety leagues from Paris to Limoges. He might spend a few minutes calculating how many steps needed to travel those miles, and then he would know how long it would take to walk home.
Inspired by something different than waiting for the sun, Quenton retrieved his pilfered pencil stub from beneath the scraggly straw mat serving as a mattress. Sinking down cross- legged, he ciphered on stones worn smooth by thousands of footsteps. With luck, Moises would appear before Quenton walked the leagues to Limoges, one step at a time, between the walls of his prison cell.
THE MORNING HAD DAWNED dreary for travel through the notorious marshland surrounding the shallow bay known as the Wash. The baggage carts and servants went ahead, and although Alix rode with the other ladies bundled beneath blankets and heated by foot warmers in the carriage, it was a miserably damp ride. While the road was boggy in places, they journeyed with cheerful certainty that soon they would leave behind even the dankest of fens. By the time they stopped for lunch at a wayside tavern, the marsh was behind them, and their journey continued through fertile cropland.
The planned stop for the night was at the inn in a tiny village, and the last thing Alix expected after the wearing day of sitting in a closed coach was to experience excitement at the idea of a local fair, but as soon as she heard music, she forgot her hours of confinement.
She was not alone. Sarah caught her husband's arm while tugging Mary along. "Johnny, can you believe it? We're here in time for a fair!"
The owner of the inn was a cheerful man with arms like a blacksmith's, evidenced by his rolled-up sleeves. He wore the half apron of his dual role as bartender, and his family worked in the place of employees. "They say today's the day that Little John freed Robin of Locksley from jail in Nottingham," he shared jovially. "Whether 'tis or not, 'tis a grand night for all."
Mary laughed, hugging Sarah's arm. "How exciting! I wish Sam were here!"
"Did I hear my name?" Samuel Newton answered, surprising everyone with a theatrical appearance from the adjacent tavern.
"Sam!" Sarah exclaimed, throwing her arms around her brother.
"Sarah, my sweet," Sam laughed, and began a round of greetings while explaining his unexpected appearance. "Well met," he vowed in conclusion. "I knew you'd be here for the fair, and thought I'd best come keep John and Nicholas out of trouble."
Sarah giggled as she hugged his neck. "Oh, Sam! You're incorrigible!"
"Since you're here, we'll have to make a night of it," John conceded readily, and began to steer them to the stairs. "If we're going to enjoy the evening, we'd better give you ladies a few minutes to change."
"Bully," Sam agreed, helping himself to Mary's arm to escort her. "There's dancing in the square tonight, and I hear they're crowning the winner of today's archery tournament."
"Oh, Sam! Will it be you?"
He laughed heartily about his skill as a bowman as they climbed the stairs. "No, blast it! I was outmatched by a few others-all this rot about rushing off to London for the season has played the devil with my aim."
The gay rumpus of the music from the street followed them as they found their rooms. "They're a little small," Sarah noted apologetically about the rustic lodgings, "but it's only for a night."
"We won't be spending much time in them anyway," her husband added cheerfully. "And tomorrow's ride down to Stragglethorpe won't be too taxing."
"Don't be late, Lily!" Sarah bade, as their group splintered off to their respective rooms. "Sam says there's a calliope in town!"
"Of course not," Alix promised, scarcely able to contain the sudden thrill coursing through her. She could not remember the last time she had heard a calliope play, but the prospect added an air of enchantment to the evening.
Nicholas Griffon stepped closer, but he was only reaching for the door handle behind her. "I'll be right across the hall. Is an hour enough time?"
Her swift response sounded strangely breathless to her.
"Certainly," she managed to reply, and then he was gone, leaving her staring numbly at the closed door.
"Psst," Jenny whispered from the antechamber. "You'd better hurry if we're going to get you ready."
Alix scraped together her oddly scattered thoughts as she obeyed. "Jenny, did you hear about the calliope?"
"Yes, we passed it on the way into town. It was with a caravan of gypsy wagons, all painted with bright colors."
"How exciting! You have another date with Albert, to go out dancing tonight, don't you?" Alix tugged on the fingertips of her gloves as she settled on the dressing-room chair for Jenny to unlace her shoes.
"I might."
Alix could scarcely believe the maid's indifference. "Do you mean that Albert hasn't asked you yet?"
Jenny laughed as she put Alix's shoes away. "I haven't said yes."
"Oh," Alix chuckled with relief, and then noticed the mauve brocade gown hanging on the rack for tonight. "What's that?" she asked, dreading the thought of putting it on.
"It's your gown, of course."
"Oh