The six-hour trip to London began.
For five hours, the trip passed in a blur of pretty country and good roads. The stage scarcely did more than pause as the mail was hurled down and more mail hurled up in the towns through which they traveled;they stopped for all of ten minutes every few hours to change horses and for everyone who needed to leap out and relieve themselves or to buy a few buns from a waiting enterprising vendor.
Mr. Farquhar woke and he and Hawkes somehow wound up talking of cricket, of all things, while Aurelie leaned across to admire Mrs. Farquhar’s embroidery, and this was the sort of life she wanted. Easy conversations that contained nothing fraught. Peaceful pastimes.
In the silences Aurelie gazed out the window, enthralled, imagining the life she could lead in each town they passed through.That would be my church,she thought, as a spire and a little graveyard passed by,and that would be my milliner shop, and those ladies I see strolling would be my friends, and Hawkes would know their husbands. She wanted a life with friends. She liked snug rooms full of laughing people sitting so near each other she could hear the click of knitting needles and the rustling turn of a page.
But what did Hawkes want?
They loved each other. The miracle of this made her feel as though their carriage was a chariot driven across the sky. But it seemed odd not to know his thoughts. His fingers were twined through hers but his face was abstracted and his gaze fixed as he watched the English countryside, likely familiar to him. No doubt he was thinking about what lay ahead, and what he needed to do to help bring Brundage to justice. This morning, he’d told her briefly of his evidence. He perhaps would share more thoughts if they were alone. But she supposed the details of each other they would come to know over time. The essence of each other they already knew.
And surely they would have time? Surely the emotions of their lives would cease crescendoing, and one day be as peaceful as the pond they’d just rolled past?
Would he ask her to marry him? Surely he would do that, too.
And the notion of being asked to spend her life with a man with whom she was so in love—the notion sent a breath-stealing bolt of anticipation through her.
The coach slowed to stop for another change of horses just as Mr. Farquhar, who had retrieved a great shining watch from his pocket, announced, “One hour to London.”
All of them tumbled out of the coach to take that brief opportunity to stretch their legs and breathe the air.
And they all froze when they saw the redcoats.
The soldiers—about five of them, mounted—had clearly been watching the road. They were likely more interested in coaches going in theoppositedirection from London, but one never knew.
Hawkes squeezed her hand gently, leaned, and whispered against Aurelie’s ear, “Follow my lead.”
And as they casually stretched, the soldiers stiffened when they got a look at Hawkes and Aurelie.
“Hold there, sir. We’d like to have a word.”
The driver was having none of it. “I’ve a schedule, Sergeant, and this is theroyal mail.”
“We know, sir. We’ve been charged with the apprehension of a possibly dangerous fugitive named Mr. Christian Hawkes, who might be in the company of a Lady Aurelie Capet, and we’ve a few questions for your passengers.”
There was dead silence as the soldiers—five of them—stared at Hawkes and Aurelie.
Hawkes eyed the soldier with mystification.
“This Mr. Hawkes sounds fearsome indeed, sir, but I am Mr. Paul Gallagher, and this is my wife, Mary.” He didn’t bow. He stood, feet akimbo, staring down at the soldier, unblinking.
“And I am Mr. Edwin Farquhar, and this is my wife, Mrs. Farquhar,” said Mr. Farquhar, with equally icy calm.
“I fear, sir,” said the officious young sergeant crisply to Hawkes, “that you fit precisely the description of an accused fugitive criminal we’ve been charged with locating. A tall, dark-haired dissolute man accompanied by a beautiful woman with dark hair and blue eyes.”
Hawkes was very,veryamused at the description, particularly the “dissolute,” imagining the relish with which Brundage had delivered the word.
A breeze whipped the ribbons on Aurelie’s bonnet and ruffled the cherries on Mrs. Farquhar’s. One of the fresh horses, unaccustomed to standing still so long after being harnessed, whickered softly.
Aurelie’s hand was still in his, and he could feel her pulse racing.
And then Hawkes took a half step forward, lowered his voice, as if he were discreetly informing the sergeant he’d forgotten to button his trousers after taking a piss, “I say, sir, I truly don’t know what you’re on about, but we are Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher, traveling from Baggleston to London, and it’s not sporting to imply that Mrs. Farquhar here is homely.”
The soldier went still. His mouth dropped open. “What on—I didn’t—what—”
He nearly squeaked.
Mr. Farquhar slowly drew himself up to his full height and his chest puffed out like a rooster. “Howdareyou, sir. My wife was agreatbeauty in her day.” He was incensed. “And she is a great beauty inourday. Theinsult, sir! How... dare... you.”