Dangerous in Diamonds - Madeline Hunter [79]
“There’s word already of thousands on the move,” one of his junior officers interjected. “Maybe tens of thousands, from all over the county and region.”
“There may not be enough of us, then,” another man said.
“Order will be maintained, one way or another,” Colonel Markins said.
The conversation moved on to more pleasant subjects. One officer asked if Castleford had attended the Ascot races this year. A major, whose father was a baron, found the opportunity to allude to the new syndicate Castleford was said to be forming, to mine gold from some land in Kent.
The soldiers did not rest long. A half hour later their red coats filed down the road. Castleford claimed his own horse an hour after that. He decided to ride on for a while before he bought a bed for the night.
He fished in the saddlebag for his map and found the village of Failsworth, to plot the fastest route through Lancashire. He cursed when he saw that Failsworth was at most five miles from the outskirts of Manchester and north of the city.
What was Daphne thinking, going there at such a time? Not running away from him, he guessed. She could go anywhere for that.
He would be the one to scold this time, about her recklessness.
Ill ease replaced his anger. His heart might have thickened, the sensation became so physical. He was not accustomed to worrying about people, and he did not know how to accommodate his growing concern. He took some comfort in knowing that at least she had Summerhays’s coachman with her.
He stuffed the map back in his bag and mounted. Then he paused and pictured that map again. There had been something familiar to it. He now realized what it had been.
He reached into the bag once more, fished down, and withdrew some loose papers. They were four pages from a pocket map, torn out for reference. Mr. Edwards had handed them over some weeks ago.
Each one had a neat circle penned on it, and some notations and directions. One showed how to reach a property near Cumberworth in Middlesex.
Another showed the region around Manchester, with the village of Failsworth circled.
He cursed himself for not realizing the connection sooner. Of course he had been foxed when Edwards gave him these map pages, so it was a wonder he remembered them at all.
That circle indicated the location of another spot he had just inherited. One where another tenant lived, in whose welfare Becksbridge had committed interest.
Daphne had gone north to visit one of Becksbridge’s other mistresses.
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne sipped some tea while the low fire toasted her feet. Another pair of slippers poked the air beside her own. Margaret’s arm kept moving up and down in a slow movement, while she brushed her long red hair.
“Are you less worried, Daphne? Now that you visited Mrs. Forester, and have seen that the village of Eccles is calm?”
“Much less worried.” It was a lie, but there would be little point in making Margaret know the sickness in her heart. Oh, visiting the Foresters had been wonderful. Those two hours had been sweet and joyful and full of nostalgia. The nearby village had indeed been calm, and she thanked God for that.
The problem was that after two days, Daphne understood too well what Margaret had meant about there being anger in the air.
One could sense it. Smell it. It marked the faces of men one passed. It changed behaviors too.
Summerhays’s expensive carriage had attracted enough angry glares that she had told the coachman to stay at the inn in Failsworth, and she no longer made use of the conveyance. Today, when she and Margaret traveled the few miles to Eccles, they had taken Margaret’s little gig.
“I hope we made the correct choice, not bringing them back with us,” she said about the Foresters.
“This house is right on the road to Manchester. They are out of the way, and much safer there,” Margaret reassured. “If the inn at Eccles had room, I would have gladly left you there.”
Unfortunately the inn had been full.