The restaurant I found was called Millie’s, it was in a separate building near the river and in summer, would have a cool breeze blowing through the open windows. Now, it was cool and well lit by gas lanterns, the tables were made of oak and fireside armchairs with red gingham tablecloths and cushions were scattered around the large room. Flowers were in vases on the circle tabletops and fresh white cotton curtains were on the windows.
When I opened the door, a bell tinkled and a pretty lady with blond hair and light green eyes came out of the back wiping her hands on her apron which was dusted with flour. She grinned at me, her teeth large and very white. “Just in time for fresh bread and apple pie,” she said. “Just came out of the oven. Sit anywhere. Tea or ale?”
“Tea.” I had my father’s love of his country’s beverage.
“We have roast pork and taters, fresh catfish or beef pot pie. Applesauce and pie. Fresh bread.”
I grinned back. One thing about me being a growing boy, I could eat. “Bring me the roast pork and applesauce, pie and bread,” I ordered and picked the table where I could watch out the windows. I set my greatcoat on the back of the chair, my rucksack at my feet and my rifle near to hand. Bowed my head and gave thanks for the meal and my safe journey. She came back out in minutes with tea, cup, lemon and honey and then retreated to emerge with a huge brass platter covered with a trencher of roast pork encrusted with salt and cracklings, roasted taters and butter, fresh white bread drenched in butter and parsley, cinnamon with applesauce and near a half of her pie in one slice. I ate without coming up for air and sat back with a sigh as I finished every bite.
“Ma’am, you are one fine cook,” I admired.
“Would you like to take a sandwich and a piece of pie with you?”
“I surely would, ma’am.”
“Where are you headed?”
“South.”
“Albans? Or Caladia?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know. Wherever they took our horses is where I was headed. Casually, I asked her if there was a horse market nearby where you could buy mounts or farm animals.
“There’s a fair down at Kateriberg. They sell teams and riding horses. Trotters. You looking for something special?”
“A stud horse. Blooded and some mares.”
“No one has come through town with anything in the last week,” she shrugged. She wanted to question me further but refrained and I wasn’t about to go into my parents’ murder.
“Where can I get a cheap bath? And the room for the night?”
“The hotel or Mrs. Callum’s boarding house.” She gave me directions and I paid her two pence for the meal and the seconds she’d wrapped up for me.
Mrs. Callum’s boarding house was down Grove Street up against the ridge with towering hemlocks leaning over the roof. It was a three-story wooden building with wraparound porches and a dozen rocking chairs. Two of the three were presently occupied when I rode up and asked where I could stable my horses. Of the three men on the porch, one pointed to the back of the house and asked if I was looking for a room. He eyed both of my horses.
“A room and a bath.”
“Junie!” He yelled and a woman came out, banging the screen door. She was dark skinned, wrinkled with white blonde hair and looked frazzled.
“Hello, I am June Callum. You’ll be wanting a room?”
“Yes, ma’am. A bath, room and a stall for the night.”
“Russ,” she spoke to the older boy in cutoff trousers and smock top. “Take his horses to the barn. Feed and water them. Peter, bring up some hot water. Room six is empty on the first floor, down the hall to the left. You wanting to eat?”
“No, ma’am. I ate at Millie’s.” I dismounted, peeled off my pack and musket. I was so full, it hurt and it made me sleepy. Following her inside, my boots echoed on the polished floorboards in the quiet, clean house.
The parlor was huge with a roaring fireplace, daguerreotypes of family on the wallpapered walls, a piano lit by kerosene lamps, couches and plush chairs occupied by drummers, merchants and a traveling wizard. One or two ladies both old enough to be my grandmother. She had me sign a register, Tobias L. S. Spencer, Bt. I considered myself a Newlander but I was also proud of my father’s heritage and the Spencer name went back to the Domesday Book.
The room was good-sized, 10 x 12 with a double brass bed, feather ticked mattress, linen sheets and a comforter. Everything was spotlessly clean. There was a washstand with a basin, mirror and a desk with a chair. A wardrobe sat in one corner and a cedar chest at the foot of the bed. One window looked out on the yard near the barn. The outhouse was close enough and she showed me the washhouse where the copper bath was being filled by a sour faced young boy. There was a wood stove in there roaring away with kettles full of boiling water and an inside pump.
“I can wash your clothes, too,” she offered but I declined. I was leaving in the morning before sunrise and didn’t have time for them to dry. She wanted a silver for the bed, Bath and barn, I paid her without haggling and she took my paper money without complaint as it was from the Bank of Caladia and not local script.
“I’ll be leaving early,” I told her and she promised me a breakfast waiting that I could eat on my way. It took 20 minutes to fill the tub with enough hot water to cut the cold. I stripped quickly to slide in and bury myself to my chin. The boy whose name was Russell handed me a bar of homemade soap and two heavy linen towels. He watched as I scrubbed myself and washed my hair finally getting the courage to ask questions.
“What’s your name?” He looked like the lady, short, stocky with dark eyes and skin, a strong nose and chin. He was about 12 and hadn’t had his growth spurt yet.
“Toby.”
“You from Caladia? You have an accent.”
“My father is from Gleneden. My mother is from Ehrenberg.” I stopped, realizing that it wasn’t is anymore but was.
“They died.” He was intuitive. “Sorry.”
“They were murdered.”
“Bandits?”
“Thieves. They robbed the farm while I was gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I went to town to pick up some supplies and some equipment. I was gone for three days when I came home, I found my mother dead and my father dying. Our animals gone.”
“You tracking them? Do you know who did it?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Are you going to contact the Rangers? Best not to say who did it lest it get back to them and they wait for you. Where are you headed?”
“Nine-mile Swamp. Glenbrook. Up that way, maybe all the way to Albans. You see any blood horses come through town?”
“No. Just a few teams delivering grain to the mills.”
I rinsed and relaxed until the water grew cold, then climbed out to dry off and slip back into my long johns. Carrying my clothes and boots I made it back to my room. I put the chair under my doorknob and fell asleep with dad’s revolver on the bed near me. My sleep was peppered with dreams, nightmares really. I kept seeing a hoard of faceless men riding through my house chasing my mother and father through each room swinging a cudgel at their heads to knock them off. They played polo with them through the yard. I woke up screaming into my pillow and to a pounding on my door. By the time I got up stumbling to open it, the entire house was awake stirring from their doorways or the top of the stairs. Mrs. Callum wore a flannel robe over a long cotton nightdress, her hair under an old mob cap and she carried a lighted candle. “You screamed loud enough to raise the dead, Tobias. Are you injured?”
“No, ma’am,” I said sheepishly. “It was just a bad dream.”
“You’re keeping everyone up.”
“Sorry,” I apologized to everyone.
“Would you like a cup of tea since you’re already up?” I pulled on my trousers, shirt and vest as I sunk my feet into my boots and met her in the kitchen at the big pecan table. A tea kettle was whistling on the hob, she poured hot water into two mugs and we watched it steep. She added milk and honey to hers, lemon in mine. I wondered where she got the lemons. “What brings you to these parts, Tobias?”
“I’m looking for some horses.”
“Stolen horses?”
“Why? Have you heard something?” I was sharp.
“What’s giving you nightmares isn’t just stolen horses. Unless you stole them yourself and someone’s threatened you to return them? Did you steal them?”
“No, ma’am. They were stolen from my family. My parents were murdered over them. My father’s dying wish was for me to retrieve them and bring the murderers to justice.”
“You’re just a boy. Leave that to the constables or the Rangers. Besides, you don’t know who stole them or where they’ve been taken.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.” I finished my tea, thanked her and went back to my room spending the rest of the night wide awake and lying on the mattress reading The Masterpiece of Magic by the Wizard Gibbons. One of the few rare books left from the old country and it spoke of magic and things we did not believe in.
I rose at dawn, packed my things and was out to the barn to saddle up. By the time I had both horses brushed, saddled and ready, Mrs. Callan came out with the burlap wrapped bundle that she handed over to me. “Breakfast. Johnnycakes and bread. A flask of tea, it’ll stay warm for a while. Are you headed south?”
“Thought I’d track as far as Albans and stop at the constable’s there, see if there are any wanted posters out. I’ll report to the magister at the consulate so they can notify my grandfather.”
“Grandfather?”
“Yes, ma’am. My father was a son of the Earl of Gleneden, Lord Spencer, Baronet, a second son. He’ll need to know.”
“Well, good luck to you, Tobias.”
She watched as I mounted and rode off into the rising sun following the pike along the Delos River. It was easy going, wagons and travelers had broadened and widened the lane and the railroad had developed a track on the ridge opposite the river. I couldn’t get lost either way, not until I left the road to venture into the woods away from the open fields lying fallow.
Here and there, I passed herds of dairy cows and flocks of sheep guarded by black and white collies who barked at me as I scattered the flock. Both of my horses danced through them, skittish in a show of good spirits. Beau wanted to trot so I let him and we made good time down the pike.
I stopped on the river for lunch, eating a sandwich and bread left from the restaurant and shared my pie with the horses. Beau liked the apples and begged for more, the mare lifted her lip and made that face amusing me. I let both of them loose to graze while I threw stones onto the water watching them skip across the surface.
There was quite a bit of traffic along the River Road, I had passed stage coaches, farm wagons and peddler carts. A boy driving a six pack of hogs and another of turkeys were taking them to market. Several Rangers went by me on well-bred stock staring at me.
I mounted and rode on, now climbing Franklin Mountain named after the Ranger who fought a battle with the people who had once owned this land. I’d be lucky to get up and over before nightfall so I kept my eyes out for a decent place to camp. Finally, I found a small meadow off the road around the sharp turn and just into the wood line. A dry fieldstone wall cut in and encircled an old homestead that had burned, its chimney the only thing still standing, with an apple tree in what used to be the front yard. There was a well but unreachable, the bucket and line had long since disintegrated and fallen in but I also found a creek and a spring. Both horses drank eagerly and I loosed them to graze while I set up a camp against the back wall of the old cabin–mostly burned logs with the bark peeled off.
I made my fire small and sheltered so couldn’t be seen further than a few feet out and laid out my sleeping bag as I put on a pot for tea. I watched the stars, not the fire and listened to the sounds of the night’s breath before I fell asleep. Come morning, I was awake by dawn, and both horses were standing near the coals of my fire, hip-shot and dozing when suddenly, the gelding raised his head and whickered. I reached for the Dragoon pistol and kept it under my greatcoat as two men approached my campsite.