The Stolen Lake (Wolves Chronicles) Page 5

  "Why—why—why, it is Cap'n Hughes's little friend—that's who it is!" indulgently but somewhat nervously replied her father.

  "I reckon you come from Greenland?" The child fixed her mud-colored eyes on Dido.

  "Greenland? No, why'd you think that? I comes from London."

  "What you doin' here, then?"

  "What do you suppose? She is visiting New Cumbria, my pipkin." And, smiling in a somewhat sickly way at the captain, Mr. Brandywinde explained, "This is our little angel, sir! It is for her benefit, indeed, that we are removing from Tenby. The air hereabouts is—is—is insalubrious for young females between the age of five and fifteen. Decidedly insalubrious. They—"

  "Ludovic!" shrilled his wife. "If those papers are not placed in the hamper directly they will be left behind. And if we are not out of the house in ten minutes, we shall miss the packet!"

  "Yes—yes, my angel—I am coming, I am coming!"

  "Well, I reckon you must be from Greenland," persisted Miss Brandywinde to Dido. "Acos otherwise you'd never be sich a peevy clodpole as to come here. Why, it's bezants to breadcrumbs as you'll never—"

  "Quiet, you little dev—angel!" exploded her father, and with something less than fondness Mr. Brandywinde picked up his daughter and plunked her into the cart, jamming her so tightly between a copper cauldron and a bundle of butter pats that she let out an indignant squawk.

  "What d'yer do that for, Pa? It's bezants to breadcrumbs as the aurocs'll—"

  But Mrs. Brandywinde, coming out at that moment in a bright pink India muslin which she must have donned at great speed, deposited a large roll of cotton quilts right on top of her child, which had the effect of silencing the little angel, as a canary is silenced by having a wrapper put over its cage.

  The driver cracked his whip, and the loaded cart started off at a gallop. The agent and his wife had meanwhile jumped into a light chariot which had come up behind. Just before this rolled off, Dido thought she heard Mrs. Brandywinde inquire of her husband, "Did you collect the dibs from Mrs. M?" and his reply, "What do you think I paid the passage with, my honey tart? I am not made of coleslaw, I assure you!"

  Then the chariot clattered off downhill toward the harbor in a cloud of dust.

  "Well!" muttered the captain in a tone of gloomy satisfaction. "I am never wrong in my judgments. The moment I laid eyes on Brandywinde I knew him to be a dem'd unsatisfactory, dilly-dallying, fossicking, freakish sort of fellow."

  "I could have told you that, anytime these last twenty-four hours," said Dido.

  "Will you be quiet, child, and not speak unless you are required to?" Captain Hughes added crossly, "We had best make all speed back to The White Hart, in case that slattern was telling the truth."

  He started off at a round pace, and Dido was obliged to trot in order to keep up with him.

  3

  On his return to The White Hart Inn, Captain Hughes was informed by a waiter that two modistes had arrived and were waiting in the young lady's bedchamber to take measurements.

  "Aha! Then that frowzy female spoke the truth; so far so good!" he exclaimed. "I will step upstairs and give them their orders. Meanwhile you may have a nuncheon prepared for me and serve it in the coffee room. Is there a mayor in this town?"

  "Yes, sir, the jefe—Don Luis Pryce."

  "I will wait on him as soon as I have finished my repast. Come along, child, make haste," he added to Dido, gesturing her to precede him up the shallow, polished wooden stairs. The White Hart appeared to be a very old building; the floors were black with age, and the upper story was a maze of small dark rooms and passages, with steps up and steps down, and very little light coming from very tiny windows. There were thick cobwebs hanging from the rafters. Dido, not fond of spiders, recalled that the captain's catalog of New Cumbrian fauna had included seven-inch ones able to leap thirty feet; she hoped there were none of that kind in The White Hart.

  In Dido's room two ladies were waiting, seated on a wooden chest by the window. An enormous pincushion, the size of a saddlebag, lay between them on the chest, together with a massive, glittering pair of scissors, and a two-yard mahogany rule.

  The sempstresses stood up and curtsied respectfully to Captain Hughes. They were dressed alike, in the black stuff gowns that seemed to be standard garb for the women of Tenby, with white fichus and white frilled caps, but in other respects they were as different from each other as possible. Dido took an instant dislike to both. One was small, aged, skinny, and wrinkled, the other big and buxom with a thick shock of coarse curly black hair escaping from under her cap and hanging halfway down her back. Each had a velvet pincushion fastened to her fichu, and a tape measure attached to her belt. Both looked very attentively at Dido.

  "You are the needlewomen recommended to me by Mrs. Brandywinde?" inquired the captain.

  "Yes, Capting. I am Mrs. Morgan," said the little old one, smiling—when she did so, she revealed the fact that she had no teeth at all, which made her smile rather like that of a lizard. "And this here's my daughter, Mrs. Vavasour."

  The younger woman also smiled.

  "So this is the young lady who needs fitting out?"

  Her pitying, disdainful glance swept over Dido's saltstained breeches, frayed collar, darned socks, and scuffed brogans, one of them with a loose buckle.

  "Ah! Pretty as a pink palm blossom she be!" cooed Mrs. Morgan, in a voice that did not match the expression in her sharp little black eyes.

  Dido was resigned to her own looks. She knew that she had a pale, pointed face, freckled like a musk flower; pale, observant gray eyes; and short, stringy brown hair. They're a-trying to gammon me, she decided, but I'm not a-going to let them. She stared coldly back at the two dressmakers while Captain Hughes gave them their instructions.

  "The young lady will be among the British party attending the court of Queen Ginevra to pay their respects to Her Majesty. I wish the child to be fitted out with two gowns, suitable for a young person of her—ahem—age and station—to wear at court—besides slippers, sashes, kerchiefs—whatever is needful. Can you do that?"

  "Certingly, certingly, Capting." Mrs. Morgan curtsied again.

  Mrs. Vavasour said, "Both gowns oughter be white. Mull for daytime wear—a round gownd over a silk pettingcoat, ingbroidered with cattails in turkeywork—"

  "—and," struck in her mother, "French knots round the neck, and the border round the sleeves ingbossed—"

  "—a pink sash—"

  "—then, for evening wear, a white silk taffety gownd, pinstriped with cream, and a lace pettingcoat—"

  "—a sash of the same, ingbroidered with silver sequing fronds!"

  "She'll look like a hangel from heaving, that she will!"

  "Very well, very well!" said Captain Hughes testily. "That sounds suitable enough—I know little of such matters. So the cut be plain and neat—nothing fussy or overtrimmed. Can you have both gowns ready by tonight? We leave on the dawn riverboat tomorrow morning."

  Another glance passed between the two.

  "Why, surely, surely, Capting," cooed Mrs. Morgan. "By midnight the work shall be done. The young lady will be fine as a bird of paradise—willn't she, Nynevie?"

  "Gracious to goodness, yes indeed!" smiled the younger woman. Dido could not decide which smile she disliked more—the bare gums or the flashing silver teeth.

  "How much will the two gowns cost?"

  "One hundred bezants, Capting—and cheap at the price."

  "Good God! Furbelows are costly in New Cumbria, it seems."

  He glanced at Dido, as if wondering whether the outlay was worth it; she glanced back with equal resentment. "Well, well—you shall be paid tonight."

  "Beg parding, Capting," said Mrs. Morgan respectfully but firmly. "We has to be paid in advance. Mull and silk and taffety and lacings—them's costly stuffs. Let alone the floss and ribbing and trimmings. Pay us now, if you please, Capting."

  "Oh, very well! I will send Mr. Windward up with the money directly. Be a good c
hild now, miss!" he said to Dido.

  "What about when they're through measuring me?" said Dido. "Can I go out to see the sights?"

  "We shall be wanting you all afternoon, missie," said Mrs. Vavasour. "For trying and fitting."

  "What? Don't I get to see the sights, not at all?"

  Both sempstresses shook their heads.

  "The streets of Tenby ain't safe for little misses," said Mrs. Morgan. "Little gels has got lost and never come home to their own kitchings."

  "Even in their gardings they ain't safe."

  "You'd do best to stay with us, dearie!" Mrs. Morgan shook her head warningly.

  "Do as they say, child," said Captain Hughes. Then he was gone.

  Dido felt much aggrieved. Captain Hughes had not offered her a nuncheon! And she was decidedly hungry. Furthermore, she was by no means enthusiastic about the sound of her court apparel. White mull embroidered with cattails—I shall look a right Charley in it, she thought glumly. And what possible use would it be on board ship?

  Might as well get it over with, however.

  "Ain't you a-going to measure me?" she demanded of the two women, who were indeed looking at her measuringly, but who made no move to take out their tape measures.

  "In a twinkling, dearie. Just a-waiting for the wampum."

  "Wampum?"

  "The mish, the ready, spondulicks, mint sauce! Us don't work on credit, lovie."

  What a havey-cavey pair, thought Dido. I wouldn't trust them as far as I could toss an eighteen-pounder.

  "Going to see the queen, is she? There's a lucky young lady," said Mrs. Morgan, grinning.

  "Indeed to goodness, yes!" agreed her daughter.

  "Many young ladies'd give their eyes—wouldn't they, Nynevie?"

  "The eyes out of their heads!"

  At this moment Mr. Windward entered the room, bearing the captain's sharkskin money bag, from which he carefully proceeded to count out a hundred gold bezants. The two women stopped laughing and watched him with close and avaricious attention; their eyes wistfully followed the bag when, having passed over the ten little heaps of ten coins, he tightened the strings, knotted them again, and took himself off.

  "Hey—Mr. Windward!" called Dido, as he was about to leave the room.

  "Well, young 'un?"

  "Is Mr. Holystone downstairs? Is he busy?"

  "He is supervising the captain's repast. Do you wish me to give him a message?"

  "Jist—when he's free—I'd be obliged if he'd get someone to fetch me a bite of prog. I'm nibblish sharp-set," Dido said disconsolately.

  Mr. Windward's long, serious face broke into a sympathetic grin as he looked at the two dressmakers waiting to start operations on Dido. He said, "Very good, young 'un, I'll tell him to have a bite sent up to you." The door clapped to behind him.

  "Well, now! Listen to Miss Throw Her Weight Around!" said Mrs. Morgan, with strong disapproval.

  "Acts as if she were Lady Ettarde herself!"

  "Little gels oughter be seen and not heard!"

  "Us had best waste no time."

  "Not a blessed minute."

  "Just you step thisaway, dearie."

  Drawing their tape measures from their belts, both women urged Dido toward the window.

  "Come here where the light's better," cooed old Mrs. Morgan, and Mrs. Vavasour said, "See that pincushion, sweetheart? See all those pins in it? Can you make out what's writ there?"

  A quantity of brass-headed pins were stuck into the fat cushion; they spelled out some word with a large number of x's in it. Dido, no great reader at best, shook her head.

  "Study it a mite closer, dearie—see if you can't make it out."

  Both women had her by the shoulders now; they were forcing her head down on to the pincushion. As it came closer to her face, she discovered that it had a strong, sweet, musky odor, somewhat resembling camphor, but much more powerful.

  "Hey! Lemme go!" she said, struggling; but already her head was swimming, her voice seemed to come not out of her throat, but faintly, and from a long way off.

  "That's the dandy! Now then, us'll jist oping this lid..."

  With immense indignation, Dido realized that Mrs. Vavasour had tied her hands behind her with a tape measure, while Mrs. Morgan opened the lid of the chest. Surprisingly, this proved to cover and surround a kind of stairhead; a flight of narrow steps led down steeply from it into blackness.

  "Now, us'll jist help the liddle dear over the side..."

  "I'll not! I'll not go! Cap'n Hughes'll have your guts for garters when he hears of this!" gasped Dido, doing her best to fight the two women, who were half lifting, half dragging her over the side of the chest.

  "Ah, but he won't hear, lovie, not till you're as lost as Lucy's pocket. You step down, Nynevie, hold her legs—lucky she's sich a skinny one, her 'on't be no trouble to fetch to the boat...."

  Dido was rolled down the steps; Mrs. Vavasour made no attempt to break her fall, and she lay half-stunned at the bottom of the fairly long flight. A moment later she felt a thick, blanketlike sack pulled over her legs and body; a string was drawn tight at the top, catching some of her hair painfully, and tied in a knot. Then she felt herself being dragged along the ground over rough, uneven planks full of splinters, many of which pierced through the fabric of the bag, and also through Dido's skin. Her head and limbs were banged and thumped against the edges of boards; she was shaken and scraped and jounced and battered.

  One good result of this unpleasant exercise, however, was that, after a few minutes of it, Dido, who had been at the start almost unconscious from the fumes of the pincushion, was jolted back into full, angry, and wary intelligence. Blister them, the old bags, she thought; I'll not yammer to let them know I'm awake—but what a gull I was! How could I be sich a nodcock as not to twig their lay from the first minute? Any addlepate could see they was a pair of downy ones. Guess I'd best look out for myself in New Cumbria; Cap'n Hughes ain't used to sich goings-on. He'll be no more use here than a thread-paper parasol in a thunderstorm.

  She had to bite her lip several times not to cry out. As she was ruthlessly dragged along, she wrestled against the tape that bound her wrists until it cut into them. She thought she felt it give a little, and so persisted in spite of the pain.

  "Lay aholt with me, Ma, and pull her down here," said Mrs. Vavasour's voice.

  The bag was given a sudden vigorous jerk. Again, Dido felt herself rolling helplessly, over and over down a long bumpy slope. By the time she came to a stop she was too dazed and bruised to do anything but lie motionless. To her joy, though, the tape round her wrists had finally broken. She was able to move her hands.

  "Where'll we lay her?" came Mrs. Vavasour's voice.

  "There, on the dried fish."

  "What about rats, Ma? Wouldn't do if her was to turn up gnawed. She 'on't have em if they ain't complete."

  Something in the woman's voice made Dido's skin crawl; also, she did not care for the reference to rats.

  "Oh, very well. On the ax heads, then."

  The sack was hoisted up, and dropped heavily on to a pile of sharp edges and hard corners.

  "When's the boat leave, Ma?"

  "Midnight. Best you stay and keep an eye on the kinchin. Do she stir, give her another whiff of guayala."

  "I stay here? Not on your oliphant! She'll not stir. Give her another whiff now, to make certing."

  "Not too much, then! She don't like 'em if they're droopy."

  The camphor fumes came close again. Dido tried to hold her breath; she pressed her lips together, wrinkled up her nose, and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

  Then, suddenly, she heard a man's voice raised in song, not far away; the sound was muffled, as if heard through a thin partition or a pile of objects.

  "My heart goes pink!" he sang:

  "My heart goes pink, the very minute I see her!

  My heart goes rose pink, like the rrrrrrising sun!

  When she is nigh, this unmistakable feeling

  Ting
les in all my senses, every one!

  I feel she is close, I know she is nigh,

  If I were in Paris, Geneva, or Rye,

  I'd quickly perceive her.

  My cherished Nyneva—"

  "Oh, no!" Dido heard Nynevie exclaim in a horrified whisper. "That's Bran!"

  And Mrs. Morgan snapped, "How the pest did he get here? I thought he were in the mountains?"

  "Oh, who ever knows where he'll turn up? Quick—let's get outa here. Make haste, Ma! Never mind the liddle varmint. She'll be right enough—"

  "A-right, a-right! Don't hurry me, gel!"

  From the sound, it appeared that Mrs. Vavasour was pushing her elderly parent up a flight of steps; there was a stumble and a smothered curse. Then a door closed with a rattle of bolts. This was followed by silence.

  Dido found herself in no great hurry to make a move. For one thing, she was not certain as to the whereabouts of the singer. The fact that this Bran, whoever he was, seemed to strike alarm into the dressmakers did not, Dido thought, necessarily mean that he would be prepared to help her; she was not going to risk being found by him. She would wait awhile.

  She occupied the time by enlarging a hole in the sack, which had been torn as it was dragged along. At last she managed to get her head out, but could see little of her surroundings, for the light was very dim. She thought she must be in some cellar or storeroom of The White Hart. They sure got a big store, she thought; seems big as Covent Garden.

  By cautious rolling and slithering she worked herself off the ax heads, which were very uncomfortable, and onto what felt like a pile of sacks, or sails. That's better, she thought. Now I'll jist rest me a few minutes, then I'll wriggle out of the sack. Croopus, how those old harridans did thump me along....

  Her head dropped back against the dusty sackcloth, and she slept.

  When Dido next woke, it was with a feeling of deep anxiety and apprehension. How long had she been asleep?

  Addlehead! she told herself. For all you know, it's nigh on midnight, and those old carrion crows'll be coming back any minute. Why the pize did I have to go and fall asleep?