Chapter Twenty-Seven
It hadn’t been as easy as Charlotte hoped to contrive a way to bring food to Justin. Flora, who’d been much distracted of late, let slip that she’d given Charlotte some time alone the previous day. Mama had accused her of failing in her duty as a chaperone. Now, every time Charlotte looked out the window, Flora would be there, too, anxious to see at what, or at whom, she was looking.
The only way Charlotte could think of to get provisions to Justin was to propose a picnic. After all, the weather was still passably warm, and it would be an excellent opportunity to see Hester and Thea.
She dissuaded her mother from coming by reminding her how sitting on the ground would inflame her sciatica. Aunt Flora was detailed to go in Mama’s stead.
Charlotte packed much more than enough food for their small party. She urged them to haste, so they might reach Oldfield Farm before the shadows grew too long.
What if Justin had been captured already? What if he was faint from lack of sustenance?
Upon arrival at her chosen spot, the blanket was spread on the ground in the lee of the trees that framed the ruined barn. Even though it had happened over a week ago, conversation focused on the Culverdales’ masquerade ball.
“Such a pity their philanthropic gesture should be marred by that awful killing on the heath the same night,” said her aunt.
Fortunately, it was Hester who answered, because just then, Charlotte heard a rustle in the bushes directly behind her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand gesturing at her. Justin’s. She recognized the tarnished copper ring she’d given him as a love token before he left for Scotland.
Hastily, she waved him back out of sight, then reached for a plump chicken leg and stood up, pretending to stretch. When she was close enough to the bush, a hand snaked out and whisked it away. She glanced anxiously back, but the rest of the party were still deep in conversation.
“It was not the highwayman who shot that poor soldier?” Thea asked.
“I believe not,” replied Hester. “I think the patrol came across several men, and shots were fired from various quarters. Maybe the soldiers were ambushed, or perhaps quite unwittingly stumbled upon some chicanery.”
“Ooh!” Thea’s eyes were popping. “What kind of chicanery?”
“I’ve heard talk of smuggling,” said Hester, cutting herself a slice of game pie.
“I’d hate to think the culprits are folk from the village, people with whom we exchange greetings every day,” Flora said, with a shudder.
Charlotte seized a thick slice of beef, a large portion of cheese, and pretended to stretch again. Both items disappeared as rapidly as the chicken joint.
“There may even be Frenchmen who’ve learned to speak English well, living right among us as spies!” offered Thea dramatically.
“Don’t be silly,” said Hester. “We’d have noticed strangers with peculiar accents. Unless they’ve tricked their way into the militia at the fort. Could a Frenchman disguise himself as an English soldier, I wonder?”
Charlotte picked up a couple of mushroom pasties and a small flagon of cider, then wandered slowly toward the barn. She set them just inside the midstrey door, then ambled nonchalantly back to her companions.
Thea had returned to the subject of the highwayman, her eyes bright. “I’m so glad it wasn’t the highwayman who did the shooting. He sounds a gallant fellow. I should hate to think him a murderer.”
“My dear child,” interjected Aunt Flora. “I can’t help but wonder at you, sympathizing with criminals! The man should get his just deserts for stealing. If the militia takes him, all well and good. But it will take more than one patrol of soldiers to scour this part of the coast thoroughly. Some of it is very wild, indeed. I fear he may remain at large for some time.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned. What would her companions say if they knew she’d been lying in the arms of that very highwayman only a few short nights ago? Or that at this very moment, she was giving succor to a wanted man, an army deserter? How ironic that she, who’d lived so blameless a life until very recently, should be consorting with such desperate men!
“Charlotte, what is it that amuses you? Surely, the prospect of a hanging is one for sober reflection and prayer, not hilarity?”
“Forgive me, Aunt. I thought a greenfly just flew up my nose; I was trying to snuff it out again.”
“Then pray do it with your back to us, and at a respectful distance. Really, you can be quite vulgar at times. What kind of example do you set for your friends?”
Thea and Hester managed to look both smug and sympathetic at the same time. Charlotte straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and returned to the picnic. She sank to the ground and tucked her skirts carefully around her, grateful no one was watching. She didn’t want to have to explain why her cheeks were stained crimson, why she toyed with her food, and why her eyes darted anxiously about.
She still needed to find a solution for Justin’s dilemma. It would be easy to decide that he’d made his own bed—and therefore must lie in it—but as she was the reason he’d come to Portland in the first place, she couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Yet, what did she know of armies, of court-martials, of military laws? How could she help him, when she was so ignorant of the authorities who’d be hunting him?
Her heart sped up. True, she didn’t know. But she did know a man well acquainted with such things.
Rafe.
The thought had been fleeting when first she’d mentioned him to Justin, but now the idea hung before her with absolute clarity. Asking Rafe for help was the best course open to her.
In truth, it was the only possible way to help save her friend.